Title: Blood Loyal
Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse
Fandoms: Harry Potter/some BBC!Sherlock in the prologue, and references after
Pairings: pre-slash and slash Drarry, Romione, and others as they come along
Author: Z-sama (dA user the-lady-harkness) and Tem
Beta: Phil the Sherlotter
Legal: We don't own the characters created by Ms. Rowling or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Or stuff controlled by the BBC.

WARNINGS: slash, angst, violence, rating may go up later for sexy times (but we are undecided on that at this point), adult language and situations, bigotry and blood status hate. More warnings will be added as needed.

MISC: This is 6th year AU, and sets up the background of the Sherlock!Wizardverse. This is also a prequel (of sorts) to our other story John, I'm a Wizard. For more information on the AU that this story takes place in and bonus content , please see our fanfic tumblr - sherlockmalfoy . tumblr . com

CHAPTER SPECIFIC NOTES: This is the ONLY chapter that will take place in the "Sherlock/present time" end of our AU (and even then it's rather far into the future from that). From chapter 1 onward everything will take place between the summer of 1921 and the summer of 1923. The Harry Potter timeline was rewritten to accommodate the crossover with BBC!Sherlock for our stories and does not reflect on the original time span of the canon books.

He could smell the ozone in the air from the periodic lightning strikes. Through the layers of old wood and tacky wallpaper. Through dust and insulation. The fire in the grate burned low. Just barely enough to fight the chill of the wet night. His hands busy with the small chip and PIN machine the local grocer had brought to him that afternoon for repair. His mind busy with other matters while his mouth dictated to the flat, slim computer pad nestled amongst his tools.

"A warm London day, it was," he said clearly. "When news of the Jaria Diamond surfaced. Our father, Sherlock, had in his youth been offered the case when it had first been stolen. Unlike the first Consulting Detective, Hamish welcomed the danger of the case."

He stopped speaking, his face contorting in deep concentration as his hands continued their work. "Command mode. Delete document." He waited for the alert to chime that the command was completed. "I'll not be writing that one today."

With a sigh he rifled through his mind, losing himself briefly among the infinite corridors of the imaginary bunker base. He had just selected a rather thrilling adventure that had led himself, his brother, his sister, and a miniature poodle through the Berlin criminal underground when his thoughts were disturbed first by an unfamiliar scent. Then by an abrupt banging on his front door.

A frown turned into a scowl as he put down his tools and glanced to his computer pad. "Command mode. Shut down." This time, he did not wait for an alert.

Rising from his stool he stretched his arms over his head. Silently he used his magic to tap into the wards of his cottage. There were three of them. Two witches and a wizard. Moderately powerful, but better than most. He pulled his magic back and lowered his arms. He checked that his wand was nestled in its holster, strapped to his wrist, and left the workroom.

He closed the door behind him, muttering a locking spell as he heard once again the forceful banging at his door.

He heaved a great sigh and made his way towards the front of the cottage to answer.

Swinging the door open he continued to scowl at his trio of uninvited guests. A sniff of the air and his wolf senses caught the unmistakable odor of the stagnant water fountain in the ministry's main reception lobby. Staff entrance, he figured, was the one they had used. He only knew the water had been stagnant because the fountain had broken shortly before his last visit, to file paperwork after…

His unwanted guests stood there on his front step, looking back at him expectantly.

"Go away," he said. "I'm retired. And my paperwork is all in order down at the beastie division in the magical creatures department. Kept up to date, real regular like. Registration renewed day before my birthday every year since I was nineteen." He paused for breath, but quickly continued to cut off whatever it was the wizard among the trio was going to say. "I've not done any magic around or to any muggles. And I'll not take part in any ceremonies nor think tanks. For all political and fiscal matters, see my elder sister, as she is head of my family since my dad's passing, rest his muggle soul."

Having said his peace, he started to close the door. Unfortunately he was forced to stop when the man's arm was put in the way. "Mr. Holmes-"

"Watson," he said monotonously.

"What?"

"Mr. Holmes was my father. And are my brothers. I much prefer Watson. Simple and inconspicuous, which is how I like it. Good night."

But the door would not budge. Or rather, would not close as he'd like it to. And neither did the wizard's arm. "Look, I'd really rather be left in peace-"

"Mr. Watson, we only need twenty minutes of your time."

"I don't-"

"How did Draco Malfoy escape from a mansion filled with the most loyal and violent of Thomas Riddle's followers undetected?" one of the witches asked suddenly and loudly to make sure she'd be heard. "Especially as the Dark Lord himself had taken residence within the Malfoy family home, and was not but two rooms away from young Mr. Malfoy at the time of his escape."

Through the partially closed door, and beyond the arm the wizard insisted on keeping in the way of it realizing the second purpose for which it had been installed (to close again after it had been opened) he considered the question. Then he sighed once more. The door moved in the only direction available to him. Inward. Open. Stepping aside he allowed them into his home.

Once the door had been closed behind them, he grumbled. "I'd prefer not, since I don't want you to even be here, but my dad did ensure I learn proper manners. Would you like a cup of tea?"

The three looked to one another before shaking their collective heads. "Well," he said. "I'm having one anyway. The study's that way, door on the left. Don't make yourselves comfortable, and don't sit in the black and chrome chair. Or the other one. For that matter, don't sit down. I'll not have your ministry stink on my furniture. Even if you are Unspeakables."

He pushed past them, giving a low growl as he made his way to the kitchen to fetch himself a cuppa. He could have simply used magic, but he preferred, these days, to do most things the muggle way. Magic, he had decided, had cost him far too much in life to be used as wantonly as he had once done.

Soon, he had settled into his favorite chair, his father's old chair. The chipped mug he always favored when he was in a foul mood sat on a patch of yellow gaffa tape. Indeed much of the chair boasted similar patches, and little of its original black leather remained. The other chair, across from it, had patches of silver and red.

He frowned as they fired questions at him. Waiting for them to be quiet so he could answer them with sarcastic, but honest, remarks. However, after nearly eight minutes he'd had enough. "Will you three howler monkeys be quiet for a few moments! I can't bloody concentrate with all three of you nattering on at once!"

The room fell silent, save for the crackling of a fire he hadn't started. So surely one of his "guests" had lit the embers.

"Thank you. Now, let's establish why you couldn't just ring me up. I have a phone, and miss Mousey Brown over there," he said, indicating the woman closest to the fireplace. "Is muggleborn. So clearly someone in your department knows how to operate the modern muggle phone networks. Also, an owl would have been equally sufficient."

"We had attempted to-" Miss Mousey Brown began, but was cut off by the wizard with them. Clearly he fancied himself their spokesman.

"Mr. Watson, our attempts to reach you in the past seventy two hours have failed."

"You know," he replied. He took a sip of his tea, then set it back down again. He did not unwrap his fingers from the handle. "Yesterday would have been my son's seventeenth birthday... My wife and I had finally decided to get married. We'd already had six girls, and had lived together ages before that. Then she was knocked up again. Swore she'd not give birth till I made an honest witch of her at last." His smile was hollow. His eyes distant, seeing not the room but the clear memory in his own mind of that day. His wife, the size of a planet, in her wedding dress. Screaming at the vicar that he'd better hurry it along because she couldn't make the baby wait much longer.

"Mr. Wat-"

"I tell you this so that you understand very clearly that in the last seventy-two hours, I was not exactly in my right mind. Since I am alone in this cottage, you can clearly see that on days like yesterday I feel the loss of my wife and only son all the more strongly. So sorry that my mourning has thrown a spanner in the works for you."

It was Miss Malfoy Question who broke the awkward silence next. She came closer, and had the audacity to sit across from him when he'd specifically told the trio of invaders not to sit. Not to get comfortable at all.

"Mr. Watson, please do forgive our intrusion-"

"This one," he said, glaring at the other two. "At least has enough sense to apologize for disturbing me before steamrolling right on in. From now on, send her out if you bastards feel the need to disrupt my life." He growled at them before turning his attention back to this other woman. "Apologies, Miss?..."

"Ludlowe," she said.

"Not your real name."

"No. Unspeakables," she said. "You'd guessed correctly."

"Don't play that game with me. You know who I am. You know where I come from. So you know I never guess. I'd tell you how I knew, but that would requite showing how clever I am. And I am not a performing monkey." He sipped his tea again, sighed, then leaned back some in his chair. "Continue."

She gaped at him, then recovered and quickly gathered her thoughts. "Well," she said, collecting herself. "Mr. Watson, we have been trying to contact you on a matter of utmost importance. We also know that you have become a recluse, and have made it nearly impossible to find you. Matter of fact, I must admit, we had to pressure your elder brother into giving us your location."

"Which one?"

"The detective," she said, wrinkling her nose. He grinned at her, and it was the only outward sign that he wasn't entirely grumpy. "He was... unpleasant."

"Yes. Hamish gets extremely volatile of late. It's been years since his mate passed, and he has no stabilizing influence in his life. If you'd like a clear picture of what our late father was like, he's rather close to the mark."

She gave back a small smile. Her comrades were rolling their eyes and growing impatient. "Look, I'll not circle the pitch here. We've come across a puzzle that's got us in the DOM rather stumped. We've had nearly every department have a look. We've contacted every major historian and specialist on the period of wizarding history in which the War took place. Your sister was the one who directed us to find you when we questioned her of your family history, and requested to view the Malfoy and Potter libraries."

He listened to her as she further explained their problem. And what had caused it. Apparently, there was a vault in Gringotts that had been sealed for just over fifty years. At which point an alarm in a solicitor's office just off Diagon Alley went off. They hadn't known what it was for, and sent one of their staff to the bank to see to it. Which is how the firm got hold of a strange box. Which opened another set of flobberworms entirely.

"So, what you're saying is-"

"The box belonged to a solicitor who had worked on retainer for your family. At least, for your grandparents, and their children. Obviously, he has long since passed. But the box had inside two things. One, another, smaller box that requires a blood key. Very serious, very dark magic. That's why it was brought to our attention. The second, and this is the curious part, was a rather short letter. The solicitor, Mr. Greenslade, had become quite curious of something. And apparently he knew that he would not live to uncover the answer. He felt it was very important that someone get it sorted. While working for the late Mr. and Mr. Potter-Malfoy, he came across inconsistencies. He traced them, we know not where, which led him to leave the box until such a time that the puzzle would get sorted."

He had listened, and sipped his tea quietly as he considered her tale. "I see. Now that we have your purpose for being here straightened out, how do you expect me to help?"

"Well, considering the subject of the question, and the fact that all other avenues of information have dried up, who better to ask than the family historian? Hence why your sister told us to ask you, and why we were forced to contact your unpleasant nymph brother for your location. And why we so desperately needed to find and speak with you."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," he said at last, staring into his now empty cup. He set it on the small table beside his chair. "However, your honesty with me will take you far. As well as your attitude, which I may say is quite pleasant compared to Mr. Surly and Miss Mousey Brown."

"There's no need to be difficult," Mr. Surly muttered.

He gave another small, hollow smile. "My father used to say that he could not form a solid theory without data. He also said you cannot make bricks without clay. How was I supposed to know what you wanted to learn if I did not know why you had come to my home, which is in the middle of nowhere near a very muggle village, during a rather heavy downpour, in the dead of night? Now," he said, giving his full attention back to the rather pleasant woman who had taken the road of patience with him rather than the indignant. "What is it you would like to know?"

He spent the next several hours answering her questions as completely as he could. When he did not know, he simply plucked a book from one of the shelves and searched for the answers. Then, she returned to the first question. The question that had gotten them through his front door.

"Honestly," he said. "I've often wondered that myself. Have you spoken with his portrait at the Manor?"

She glanced to the other witch, who nodded. "Yes," Miss Mousey Brown said. "But he was very tight lipped on the subject. We had asked the other portraits, as well as those who were associated with your family during that time. No one knows anything-"

"That's not entirely true. Someone must know something. Memory charms could have been put into place before the paintings were commissioned. I'm sure grandmother would have known, as it was very hard for my grandparents to keep secrets from one another for very long. Wizard's oaths could also have been in effect. I'm surprised your lot hadn't thought of these potential problems, and then dove right into research on wizard portraits. I'm sure there's plenty of mysteries at work there." He shrugged. "That is neither here, nor there. Draco Malfoy, I suspect, took that particular secret to the grave with him, and ensured none could speak of it after."

"Yes," Ludlowe said with a defeated sigh. "I suppose that's it then. Thank you for your time, Mr. Watson. Again, I apologize for having disturbed your night."

He glanced towards the window, seeing the sky was only just starting to lighten. Dawn would be on them soon enough. "You know the way out," he said. The other two were all too happy to go. But the woman who had called herself Ludlowe moved slower, almost deliberately. To him, it was so terribly obvious.

"Yes, what is it?" he asked with a tired groan.

"I was wondering. And it's a shot in the dark, I know. But maybe... When you were a child, did your grandparents ever talk about the war?"

"Of course. It's what nearly tore them apart, and yet in the end brought them together again. And, coming from the family that I do..."

"Right... Right. Sorry. Stupid question."

"Quite."

"Well, what I was meaning to... Is there anyone? Anyone at all that you may have heard of, even in passing, that we might could speak to?"

He thought hard for a moment. This Unspeakable, this Ministry employee, he actually liked. She was decent enough, at least. And this puzzle, or similar ones to it, had bothered him as well. Had bothered all of his siblings, actually. But none really bothered to look further into it. "There was a man," he said at last and rose from his chair. Quickly he moved to the desk, glancing up briefly at the large black scorch mark on the ceiling before reaching for pen and paper.

Three names he scribbled down before ripping the sheet from the pad and offering it to her. "My uncle, you know of him?"

"Yes. The late Lord Malfoy's work as muggle liaison is quite well documented and known. He was, from what I am told, quite a severe man."

"He had his moments," he said. "Especially after his partner Greg passed... But that's neither here nor there. I only mention him because of his name. Look at his name."

She did. The Potter-Malfoys, and the generations after, were known for giving their children odd and eccentric names. "I don't see anything wrong with it."

"Father said he was named after an old family friend my grandparents met during the war. Yet... my father had never met him. My uncle had never met him. Nobody's met him. I've tried to dig up information but... there's nothing. There was no Scorpius Mycroft Holmes in England, or indeed on the Continent during that period of time. At least, not a wizard by that name. I've tried all three names separately as well. There's seventy five Mycrofts on record, most of which were in France. Nineteen men and women by the name of Scorpius. Most of which were dark wizards and witches. During the entirety of the war, half of those died. The rest were sent to Azkaban on various charges in the years before and after the war. None were related. As for Holmes... Do you know how common a muggle name that is? It's why my uncle Mycroft chose it for his muggle alias."

She stared at him, blinking as she let this sink in. Then, she looked down at the paper again. "I... I'll see what I can find."

"Next time, owl before you come storming to my house in the dead of night. And don't bring those two idiots with you. It's like having Anderson standing in my bathroom. Very unsettling."

"What?"

He shook his head and moved to show her out. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing you'd understand at any rate."

Once he was again alone, he looked around his old, run down little cottage. He took a deep breath, rubbed at his tired eyes, and then returned to his workroom. Once seated at his bench again, he reached underneath for the bottle that now sat there on a regular basis. A tumbler soon followed.

Before he went back to work on the chip and PIN machine, he had already drowned the glass three times of its scotch - one drink for each of the headaches he'd developed during the night.

o0o

The pub was noisy. The pub was full of life. It was just what one needed if he were feeling particularly anti-social and needed the enjoyment of running people away rather rudely. A bottle sat on his little table by the window. A tumbler beside that. And in front of him, with the glass and bottle behind, sat his computer pad. He didn't dictate this time as he had while working. Instead he tapped at the touch screen with the fingers of one hand while occasionally pouring himself a drink with the other.

But he wasn't only in the pub to work on another 99p store story.

He was there to meet a woman who could not be found. Unless, of course, one had the connections to do so. Notes of which he had stored, also, on his computer pad.

Every so often silver eyes would rise from his work to scan the room, though he knew she had not yet arrived. Nearly the entire afternoon passed in this fashion, until at last when the door opened and his nose caught the scent of the ministry fountain. And...

He smiled to himself, a small but genuine little expression, and then looked up. "Miss Gretta Katherine Gaines-Ludlowe," he said when she had approached the table. "Hufflepuff who many feel should have been sorted Slytherin. Prefect, then Head Girl. Eleven out of twelve NEWTs."

She frowned, glancing worriedly about before taking a seat across from him. "Mr. Watson-"

"Don't worry. The moment I caught your scent I put charms in place. No one will understand what we're talking about, if they even hear it. Now, you were a very model student. On the fast track for becoming both a transfiguration and divination's master. But during your apprenticeships, a student caught you while in a trance and I believe you foretold of his mother's murder. Seeking to prevent this, he went out and confronted a rather nasty fellow he believed had been harassing her at her place of employment. And, well, you know how these sorts of things go... I was quite surprised to learn you immediately went into the Department of Mysteries under the name Ophelia Price. Rather odd, I'd thought, until I learned who your grandmother was. Sally Donovan, defrocked witch forced to leave her given name of Price behind. Really. I hadn't known she'd settled. Or, perhaps, you simply came about because she'd gotten knocked up by a married man, and your mother was the result. Not Anderson, though. I'd know." He stopped, setting his computer pad aside and quietly turning a spoon into another glass. He filled both his own and the other before offering her a drink. "It seems, Miss Ludlowe, that you and I were meant to cross paths. Just as my sister had found a Weasley while one brother was meant to find himself a Moriarty, I seem to be saddled with a Donovan."

"Mr. Watson, not only are your assumptions rude and inappropriate, whatever information is kept in my secure ministry files is classified under ministry sanctions-"

"Don't give me that shite. I don't trust people to tell the truth when dealing with them. I like to know who I'm probably going to get buggered by. Now that the field of play is even, and we both know the sort of opponent we're playing against, let's get to business. Your missive stated you had uncovered information regarding the name I gave you."

She frowned, having wanted to dive right into questions rather than their discovery. "May I, just a few first. I wanted to see if there were any other connections to be made before I showed you-"

He waved a hand and picked up his glass. "Alright, alright. But only because you're patient with an old, bitter werewolf."

She cleared her throat, reached into her coat pocket, and removed a sheet of paper covered in names. Names of this man's family members. And one by one she went through the list, asking where the names had come from.

By the time she had reached his sister, he'd been bored stiff. Parroting information that should have been quite obvious. "Look," he said. "My sister was named for my muggle aunt. Her middle name of Wynona is from my dad's favorite actress, Winona Ryder. My brother Hudson's name comes from the late landlady of 221 Baker Street, Mrs. Martha Hudson. His middle name of William is for William the Conqueror, whom my father thought was quite interesting at the time. My brother Hamish Leopold got his name from my dad's middle name, also Hamish, and from a bet my father lost to Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, my late uncle's partner. And my name comes from a misplaced sentiment for the restroom of a restaurant in which I was both conceived and born."

"And your middle name, Mr. Watson?"

"What, Tobias?" He shrugged. "Dad always said father was insistent that my name be Tobias. He just liked the sound of it, and it wasn't one that began with an H. And it didn't go along with a theme. Lastly, it was not the name of anyone my father personally knew or actually cared about, therefore it could not be considered a name given in honor of someone else. Does any of what I've said answer any of your questions whatsoever?"

Her eyes had lit up when he had spoken of his own name. It was hard to miss when she also started scratching her quill against parchment far too quickly to be considered normal. "Mr. Watson, just one more question before we continue."

"Of course, because you can't just show me what evidence you've found. No, you've got to make my life more difficult."

She gave him a small smile, recognizing by now his sarcasm. "The Black Estate," she said. "The records at both Gringotts and the Ministry show that Mr. Potter was listed as his godfather's heir. Therefore he inherited everything the Black family owned rather than the estate passing to the next living male, the young Mr. Malfoy."

"Yes. Common knowledge."

"They then show that, upon Mr. Potter's passing, the estate passed to your father, Mr. Holmes. Correct?"

"Yes. Though father left the running of the estate to his brother Mycroft and sister Lily. As well as allowing the two of them to wield the political power behind his seat in the wizengmont. He preffered to remain living a muggle life."

"Well," she said. "It seems things get a little confusing after that. Now I understand why people come to you for political and fiscal matters to do with the estate rather than your sister."

"Yes. When father stupidly got himself blown up during an experiment, his will left everything to my dad. Unknowingly, due to the creature laws in effect at the time, as well as the type of bonding ceremony they had, the estate went with that. When dad passed, he had left everything he had to me, not knowing that he, a muggle, was actually Lord Black for three years between father's death and his own. I've tried to get this straightened out, but in the end had to give power of attorney to my sister, at least in the wizarding world, so that people like you will stay the hell off my back."

"Yes... about that..." she said, tucking her papers back into her pocket. From another pocket, she found another paper. Then, after a quick glance around, she enlarged it for him to see. "This was all we have been able to find linked to the name that you gave us. This is the last will and testament of-"

"Lord Scorpius Mycroft..." He trailed off, reading the name again. And again. And again. Trying to force himself to believe what he was seeing. The evidence was clear as day before his eyes. He was holding it in his hands. And yet, his mind rebelled against the very idea... He reached for his glass to find it once again refilled. At least this ministry worker was good for something other than disjointing his day. He drained the glass and set it back down, turning his attention back to the paper. The last will of a man he'd only suspected had existed. Swallowing hard, he continued, with a softer tone. "Lord Scorpius Mycroft Angelo Tobias Watson-Holmes Black of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black," he read. He glanced up to Miss Ludlowe with a confused expression before reading further into the paper.

It described, in great detail, the wand strapped to his wrist. The cottage in which he lived. The provisions that had been in place for when he would start his education at Hogwarts. Provisions he'd been told by his grandmother that had been set up by a distant family relation.

"Are there paintings? Photographs-"

"None. This is all we were able to find. But look, it was filed with the same firm that handled the Potter-Malfoy legal affairs. And the records with the firm show that it was read not long after you were born. The date of death... And do forgive me for looking up your birth records, Mr. Watson... But the date and time of death match the date and time of your own birth. It's a farfetched idea, but I don't think it's coincidence!"

She continued to explain other ideas and leads that the will had given her research team. But he tuned her out. He was going through the papers with a fine eye, breaking each and every section and article apart and growing more and more concerned as it went on. Finally, when he had deduced everything he could possibly get from it, he gave it back to her. "Tell me," he said. "How far have you come with the second box? The one needing a blood key?"

"Whomever sealed it knew what they were doing. I can't go into detail, but we've had experts from across the globe try their luck, with little success. We got it to jump off the table once. But... locked tight. We can't even identify a magical signature on the thing. Even if we could, I doubt we'd be able to find the person who made it. The box is older than the one we'd found it in."

He gave a small nod, casting his attention into his mind to secure the information he had gathered. Something didn't add up. Something was off. He could taste it as sure as he could taste the scotch in his belly. "Give me a week."

"What?"

"I said, give me a week. I will contact you by owl, and we will meet at the place of your choosing. There are some matters I must look into myself, and hopefully I may be able to shed some light on this little problem."

"Mr. Watson-"

"I think we're past formalities, Gretta. Please, call me Angelo."

She gave him a tiny, flattered smile. "Yes. Yes of course. When can I expect-"

"Like I said, a week. No earlier, no later."

o0o

It hadn't been hard to find the paperwork he needed at the solicitor's. They were actually eager to help, hoping to learn more of their vault mystery. After checking about the will, which as one of the beneficiaries he had no problem viewing a copy of, he had been able to find out that this mysterious man had not used his full, given title in his dealings. As a matter of fact, the only record of the full name had been on the will and the death certificate which, actually, had been much harder to get his hands on.

The name he found the man's records under had been a simple deduction. Scorpius Mycroft had been far too uncommon. Using an actual title would stick out like a crook in a police station. Watson or Holmes had been too muggle, and would have drawn attention after his uncle, then later his father, became associated with the names. Angelo... could have been gotten away with. But... No. Something common. Something everyone would overlook. But something absolutely true otherwise he'd have been picked up for fraud the moment he put quill to anti-fraud charmed parchment.

So Angelo did what he always did in these situations. What would he himself do? That part was simple. He'd use the pureblood name connection, Black. One of the most common names in the wizarding world. And an inconspicuous name that could tie him to no one he actually knew. Tobias.

Thus, he started looking for records filed for Mr. Tobias Black and soon enough he'd found a trail. Sparse on details, but it was enough to get him started. Invoices for construction work in Sussex. Account numbers for various vaults in the Australian, French, and South African branches of Gringotts. A list of valuables sold off at auction that were, he noted, of dubious nature. And a slew of summons to the wizengmont that dated back to just after the war. Quick mental calculations put the dates on the parchments around the time of the Death Eater Trials.

Periodically, his grandfather's name popped up, but not much. Just a few letters of correspondence which he realized had been collected after the man's death. Letters from Draco telling this stranger all about his children, and later grandchildren. An anecdote about Harriet announcing to the world she was upset she hadn't been sorted Slytherin after all. Complaints about muggle London.

Trivial matters, and trivial replies.

Nothing of great importance, so he left the rest in favor of potentially more important data.

When he had learned all he could from the solicitors, he repeated the process, with little success, at Gringotts the next day. What little he had been able to discover there had been that in some families, especially the older pureblood houses, there were often more than one lord or lady. It had to do with medieval law that Angelo really didn't feel was important enough to comit to memory at that time. What he was able to get out of the miserable goblins had been that yes, Tobias Black was indeed a Lord of the house of Black, but he was not the head of the family. That had been Harry Potter, via Sirius Black. Yet, he could act on behalf of the house of Black should the head of the family be indisposed or unable to do so him or herself.

At least, that was the gist of it.

Armed with all of this new knowledge, he then turned back to the books. Picking up the threads of information and tying them together in his mind. Building a mental web before he set out to interview the portraits of various old family friends. Of war heroes and even criminals.

By the time he at least reached Malfoy Manor on day six of his requested week to gather data, he was not in the best of spirits. Especially after a single surviving portrait of Lucius Malfoy spent nine hours screaming at him about trying to eat him alive. It was a bit not good when his great-grandfather starts shrieking like a woman at the very sight of him, despite having never actually seen the portrait before in his life.

His cousins, the Dimmock triplets who now resided in Potter-Malfoy manor (all three were rather obnoxious and boisterous Gryffindors) had been reluctant to leave him alone in the manor. Not that they hadn't liked their Holmes cousins. Oh no, they adored them. But... they were concerned about leaving him alone at all, given they knew their cousin was still grieving his wife and son.

They didn't want to come across him laying dead in their grandfather's study.

After assurances that he would be fine, and would call a house elf if he needed anything, they left him to the study. And to the portrait that waited behind the heavy green velvet curtains.

Angelo paced back and forth in the room. Glancing to the curtains as he bounced between anger and confusion.

Eventually he settled on rather peeved and stopped in front of the curtains. Reaching out for the silver rope, he pulled hard and watched as the smirking face of Draco Malfoy looked back at him.

"I knew you would be around soon enough. Especially after that rather nosey young woman came poking about."

"You've had some restoration work done," Angelo noticed, leaning closer and poking at the painting. "Rather fine job, too. They scaled you back a few decades, didn't they."

"One must keep up appearances as best one can."

"You're not ruddy royalty."

Draco smirked flatly back at him. "I'm a Malfoy. That's more than enough."

"And a Potter!" shouted another portrait nearby, hidden by deep red curtains.

"Go visit the other frame over at Harriet's!"

"Fine fine. I know when I'm not wanted."

"Don't be childish Harry. I'll fetch you when I'm done with the puppy."

"I'm right here you know."

Draco rolled his eyes, and if he could sigh, he would have done so at this moment. "Is he gone?"

"I heard they're remaking the Harry Potter films and I can't wait to see them!" Angelo lied rather loudly. When no rude response came from behind the red curtains, he nodded. "He's cleared off."

Draco relaxed, wished he had a chair painted into the portrait with him, and shook his head. "Even now he rants about those damned books. Caught one of your cousins reading one the other day. Set him off for a few days and nights. I could hardly get any sleep."

"Do portraits actually need sleep?"

"No, but what else are we going to do, hanging on the wall all day with no one to talk to but ourselves and nosey young women looking for answers to things they really shouldn't bother with."

Angelo couldn't help but return the smirk that was being shot at him. "I was hoping we could get back to that. They haven't made the connection yet. Because he's covered his tracks too well for your common variety snoop to find. Then again, minds like ours are hard to come by."

"Yes, they are. I suppose you've already been by the solicitors. And the bank."

"That's why there were never pictures of this mysterious friend of your's. Or a portrait."

Draco nodded.

"How long did you know?"

"How long did I know what?"

"Don't play games with me Draco!" he growled, then quickly checked himself. A quick look around told him his cousins hadn't heard his outburst. The silencing wards on the study must have still been in place despite how long ago they had been put there.

"I had them refreshed the last time your brothers were here. You should visit us more often, you know."

"Don't change the subject either."

If Draco would heave a great sigh, he would have. Instead, he mimicked the action. "Be specific. You're just like your father, you know. When it comes to demanding information. You're never specific enough."

"How long did you know who he was? Who I am? And why the bloody hell did no one bloody tell me!"

"Firstly, I suspected the day he died. But there was a lot going on at the time. My best friend had just died while I was sitting with him. My son had just barely survived giving birth to a very sick, very small, and very early child. Do forgive me if I had a lot of things on my mind and could not devote my full mental capabilities to sorting out one of the strangest mysteries I had ever encountered."

He felt his cheeks grow hot, and averted his eyes under Draco's penetrating stare.

"Secondly, my suspicions were not fully confirmed until I attended the will reading. Harry remained at the hospital with our son so that John, your dad, could accompany me. You had recently been cleared to go home, but needed constant attention and physical contact with a parent. Therefore, John had brought you with him."

"I was... You mean... But..." He looked back to the portrait, finding there a slightly softer expression in Draco's painted grey eyes despite the placid mask on his face. "I was at my own will reading?"

"Yes. It seems so."

"But why did no one tell me any of this? Why-"

"And how do you think that would have gone down, young man? Terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time, Angelo. I was not about to throw a spanner in the works. So... I had to put a memory charm on John. Just a little one. Nothing your father would detect. And he had always been quite good, so it was a rather challenging risk. And I cannot tell you what will happen now, either."

"So I have no choice in the matter. I have to somehow find a way to go back in time, again, and then what? Save the day?"

Draco rolled his eyes rather dramatically. "Look. I'm not telling you what to do. I'm not even going to convince you to do it or not do it. You still have your free will."

"But that's the thing, innit? I don't have free will here. If I don't... If I don't rescue you, you'll get the mark. You get the mark, you'll be a Death Eater. You'll never patch things up with Harry. After the war the two of you will never get together. You'll never get married. You'll never make one of the most important magical breakthroughs of the 20th century. My father will never be born, and I'll never exist to be standing here right now pointing out this paradox."

Draco was silent now. Oh, he could have easily thrown a rather witty response. He could have rationalized that Angelo didn't know what he was even supposed to do, so how did he know that he was the one who really rescued him or not. He could have just told him to sod off and have his crisis elsewhere.

Instead, he gave a small, quiet little nod. In a moment of sincerity and compassion that had been so rare of him in life, he spoke softly and evenly. His tone one that once, long ago, a wise old werewolf had used to reassure him that everything would work out in the end. That he would survive the war and see his Harry again.

"Angelo, what is left for you here?"

"What?"

"Your life. What do you have left to keep you tied to this place?"

"My house-"

"You've lived in a tent."

"My girls-"

"Are grown with families of their own and no longer need their father."

"My... My brothers. And Harriet-"

"Are older than you. They take care of themselves. They have good jobs. Two of them have children of their own. Harriet, I hear, will be a grandmother herself soon."

"My work."

"From what I've heard you sit in the dark drinking scotch all day while speaking to a dictaphone and tinkering about with your odd little muggle machines. Alone. So I ask you again. What is left for you here?"

He growled angrily, reaching for his wand but then, realizing it was futile to hex a painting, allowed himself to slump into a nearby chair. "You said you weren't going to try and convince me one way or the other."

"I'm not. What I'm doing is trying to be a good grandparent and give you a sound and logical basis on which to make your decision."

"I don't want to do this. Why can't someone else-"

"Perhaps someone else did. Perhaps these clues were left for you to find so that you may bring attention to it. So that you can send someone else to-"

"No. Because it's too complicated. Nobody can be that clever."

Draco shook his head. "I believe your father, in a failed attempt to sow the seeds of doubt in his John's mind said something similar. I also believe you know what John told him in return." Angelo nodded, then leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. His face in his hands.

He knew, the moment he'd read that will, what had to be done. He knew, also, that the means to do it had been locked away in that second box. The box that needed a blood key to open it. Dangerous and very dark magic. Necromancy, to be technical. He cast his thoughts wide, trying to find something, anything that would make this decision easier to make. Anything that could be considered big enough for him to remain here, in this life of his. Such as it was.

His heart ached, then. If his Matilde had still been with him... if his boy had still been there... He'd have gone against his logic. Fought against the evidence. But he didn't have his wife anymore. He didn't have his son anymore. Draco was right. His girls, squibs all six of them, had grown and started families of their own. Integrated fully into muggle society. His siblings, though they cared for him deeply, were no longer as close as they had been. Not since their dad had finally passed. Not since they had begun taking the roles left for them in both their worlds.

He was a sad old drunk living alone in a cottage. Working in the dark day in and day out between lunar cycles. The only time he even felt alive anymore was during the full moons. When he would run free beneath the stars, hunting rabbits and digging holes.

"That box," he said at last, looking up at Draco who, strange enough, looked back down at him compassionately. "You know what's in that box, don't you?"

He nodded.

"And you know how to open it."

Again, he nodded.

"And I'm the only one that can, aren't I?"

"I'm sorry."

He was right, without actually saying the words.

Angelo's life had run its course. He had nothing left to keep him there. Slowly, carefully, he took out his wand and held it between his index fingers. "I'd often wondered," he said. "Why my wand had such a peculiar name. Why it had these designs carved into it. Why it had the core that it did. Phoenix feather... It had been staring me in the face every day since I was eleven. I was born the day I died. I create myself."

"What?"

He shook his head and replaced his wand. "Nothing," he said. "Just... something I heard on a television programme as a child. I suppose now I'll have the chance to watch all of the missing episodes after television is invented."

o0o

The last day. The seventh day. He owled Ludlowe to tell her he would meet with her at a place of her choosing. At a time of her choosing.

Within the hour he received a response.

Within two hours he stood in the reception lobby of the Ministry, having his wand checked and receiving a visitor's pass and directions to the office in which he was to wait for his escort.

By teatime he was sitting in a room before an antique box made of ash and chestnut. A prick of the finger, a few murmured words in Gaelic, and a click echoed in the small room. Five sets of eyes looked to him as he lifted the lid of the box to discover two items. Carefully wrapped in silk and cushioned with both charms and actual pillows.

Ludlowe, being the only member of the research team that could get him to cooperate, moved closer to get a better look inside. "Is that... Is that what I think it is?"

He swallowed hard, looking from the slender phial filled with fluorescent liquid of a pensieve memory to the cracked and empty hourglass shaped pendant nestled in beside it. "What," he began, looking up at last from the contents of the box to the expectant faces staring back at him. "Do you know about time turners?"

A/N - This is actually the second version we've written for this prologue. The original had this convoluted plot of a frame up job, murder, and some other stuff. But that was just boring and hard to keep working with. So you get this instead. It'll also likely be the longest chapter of them all, being the prologue and our wanting to fit everything for this character into it rather than take the entire first four chapters to explain him and why he's even there at all. If you haven't read our story, John, I'm a Wizard then we highly suggest you do so in order to familiarize yourself with out fanfic universe. Or you can check out the expanded ficverse via the bonus content on our tumblr - sherlockmalfoy . tumblr . com

We greatly appreciate reviews, and will do our best to respond ASAP.