Harry Potter, Sherlock 1. Twelve

**MCC #2: Reflection Unveils Ocean Eyes (Chapter 1)**

Twelve

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***Hello fellow Sherlockians! I am back with the second part of my Potterlock series. If you haven't read part one yet, I suggest heading over to my profile right now and reading MCC: Fear Is A Choice. **

**WARNINGS: **_descriptive/disturbing images, language, violence, etc._

***Johnlock cuteness thrown in ;-)**

***Some humor and jokes about other TV shows and movies in here.**

***Feel free to review however many times you'd like, whenever you want!**

***The characters of BBC Sherlock return to Hogwarts for their second year.**

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Harry Potter. They belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and J.K. Rowling. All original story ideas belong to them. I make no money off of this story. It is for entertainment purposes only. **_

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A young boy winced at a sharp pain that pinched his finger, a splinter digging in as a result of twirling a woodchip in his palm. As soon as the tiny fraction entered the first layer of skin he let the chunk fall to the ground harshly, settling to join thousands of replicas of itself. The boy did not pick up another one as he'd learned from his stupid mistake and lesson while hurting himself in the process.

The sun beat down as if to strangle him, sending flowing rays to hit the black All Stars that protected his stumbling feet. He kept shuffling them about, tapping them together or weaving them in and out of each other. It was hard for him to sit still after an unfortunate incident that almost took his life in his previous school year. This boy was not just an ordinary human; through the developing years of his infant stage, the kid with blonde locks for hair was possessed with a special ability that only a select population of the world could master.

He was a wizard.

The boy sat alone on a child swing set at the deserted local elementary school playground, gently pushing his shoes off the pile of woodchips to rock back and forth. Not a living soul was in sight as he contemplated things on his own. This was the same school he went to as a younger student, only then he hadn't known his best friend then like he did now; the friend he'd met by learning about a certain school devoted to magic from. Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry.

A long stick with curved patterns and smooth bark was stuffed in his khaki shorts' pocket, but very few people understood the true power the wand could produce. He kept it with him yet hidden at all times, just in case the need arose to defend himself in a life-threatening situation.

He continued to swing freely in the sweltering heat, a frown permanently on his face and his red polo shirt consuming sweat stains on his back. A blue bike was leaning up against the nearby construction set poles, sparkling in the sun with an empty water bottle under the pedal chain. Perspiration was dripping down his back in large droplets, making his throat beg for water and his hair bangs stick to his forehead.

What he held in his hand was something a child would not normally carry around with them. The pocket radio was making gurgling noises as he tried to tune it. He had a strange addiction to Muggle music and always found himself singing along to various beats, knowing almost all of the lyrics. The device belched fuzziness at him once more and he shook the broken electronic, extending out the antenna to try and gather a signal. By tilting it for multiple attempts, he finally collected a faint DJ beat coming to fill his hearing. The song he'd caught wasn't very old, as it had been released early that same year. He kicked in easily and soon began to sing along, tapping a steady staccato on his thigh.

_Feel my way through the darkness, _

_Guided by a beating heart. _

_I can't tell where the journey will end, _

_But I know where to start._

The radio gave off a high-pitched shriek and the blonde flinched at the ear-splitting screech, smacking the useless provider of music so it cooperated with him.

_I tried carrying the weight of the world,_

_But I only have two hands. _

_Hope I get the chance to travel the world,_

_Cause I don't have any plans._

Another verse picked up and instead of lip singing he hummed the tune, his sounds rising and falling perfectly to the melodious pitch.

_Wish that I could stay forever this young,_

_Not afraid to close my eyes._

_Life's a game made for everyone,_

_And love is a prize._

The song faded for large gaps and then came back as clear as fresh water for some periods, but the notes died off and cut short much sooner than he wanted them to. He was left in total silence for several long, drawn out moments until he was able to boost his signal and discover the next tune on the playlist. However, he was only able to hear the few lines of the chorus through the obnoxious bellows of static he received instead.

_It's time to begin,_

_Isn't it,_

_I get a little bit bigger but then,_

_I'll admit,_

_I'm just the same as I was,_

_Now don't you understand,_

_That I'm never changing who I am._

And then the radio cackled a final time and died, ending the muffled sound effects and cutting off sharply. The boy sighed and turned it over in his hand, muttering, "Stupid thing…Needs new batteries," and chucked it aside.

He suddenly felt a vibration coming from his outer knee area and flung his hand into his pocket, pulling out his cheap cell phone his parents gave him years ago in case of an emergency. That's not what he used it for now. He liked and tended to text his best friend in his free time; that is when he wasn't hanging around with him.

Black letters in a dedicated font stared at him on the screen, and he had to squint his eyes to read the message against the blinding sunshine. His brain took in the words and he realized it was a text from a boy who lived in a neighborhood close by to his.

**Father just left for work. Ministry stuff. 'Top secret' apparently. Would you maybe want to meet up later in the afternoon? –SH**

The boy who'd gotten the text sat debating what he really did want to do. After a little while, he sent a short reply.

**Don't know yet. –JW**

A response came back almost instantly.

**What's that supposed to mean? –SH**

He rolled his eyes.

**I'll think about it. –JW**

Silence surrounded him once more until about five minutes later, another beep came from his phone.

**Where are you by the way? I've been looking for you for ages. –SH**

**I'm over at my old elementary school. Been sitting on the swings for about two hours now. –JW**

**John, you're going to get dehydrated. –SH**

That was the first time somebody had silently spoken his name through a communicator that day. Sherlock only used his name in text messages when he was extremely concerned or proving a point. Not serving as a good example of a best friend, the boy named John sent Holmes a lie back.

**I'll be fine. I've got a bottle of water with me. -JW**

The answer he got in return made him consider traveling back home as soon as possible.

**John, you know you can't stay outside for that long. The heat will be too much after a while. It's over 100 degrees and I'm sure you'll end up with sunburn if you sit there any longer. –SH**

Watson heaved a deep sigh, grabbing hold of the swing chain with one arm. With many topics of arguments, his body concluded it would be best to start the ten minute ride home.

**Be back in a little bit. –JW**

But he didn't move. He even told his best friend Sherlock Holmes that he was going to ride his bike back to his house yet he didn't get up from his seat. His gaze, focused intently on the tan ground, slowly transferred to his right. A crumbled newspaper was lying beside the front tire of his bicycle, words floating around the page and images moving in synchronization. In the wizarding world, pictures and words were bewitched to move around on tapestries and paper, making the world of magic 'unique' when it came to informational history and news.

Watson didn't know why he had a weekly junk copy of the new wizard paper The Daily Prophet, but he bent over gingerly and took the thin news article in his hands anyway. The presence of it displeased him but he needed to have a scoop on what was going on in the wizarding world over the summer holiday. The parchment looked cream colored in the daylight and he was familiar with the faces staring up at him. One photograph shocked him the most, being smack dab in the center of the front page. The head article was titled "Dementors Evacuated From Hogwarts, Returned Back To Azkaban."

Curious, his eyes traveled down the page to read the first couple sentences about the week's head story.

"_After a tragic event that occurred at the end of the Hogwarts school term and nearly killed two first-year students, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore has dismissed the Azkaban guards from the grounds and sent them back to their prison. The two boys involved in the incident were claimed to be chased through the Forbidden Forest by the dementors and then were attacked on the shore of the Black Lake, almost taking the life of the shorter student with blonde hair. The Ravenclaw was seen defending both boys from potential danger and collapsing at the Gryffindor's side. When he woke up a few days later, he was back to normal in no time. Both boys successfully recovered." _

"Yeah, just barely," John said to himself. He skipped over a large paragraph until a quote and a name caught his eye; the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge.

"'_Some of the professors who teach at the school were told from Holmes that it was Slytherin Jim Moriarty who was behind the attack, but the Ministry has no proof of this for evidence and therefore cannot punish Mr. Moriarty for his actions.'"_

"What?" John yelled out in rage at Fudge's own words, not believing Moriarty could get away with something so serious as threatening two first years' lives. _I never should believe this rubbish, _he told himself. Eyebrows bowed in anger, he continued to scan the bottom of the page to collect a bit of information on the Slytherin's father.

"_Jim Moriarty's father works in the Department of the Muggle-born Registration Commission offices and has indeed been keeping a close eye on Watson, as he is a Muggleborn." _

_What? That's a typo, _John noticed, aware that he was a half-blood and had one wizard parent. Finishing up the article, his eyes wandered the page and fell back on the image of the dementors of Azkaban.

The deranged, hooded monsters were attempting to suck the engraved image of themselves from the magazine, hiding their faces with ragged, grey cloaks. Their scabby, green hands were longing to drag John's face into the paper so they could destroy his soul forever. His encounter with them last year left his life hanging on the edge of a knife, struggling to survive with such a weakness as only the strongest wizards can overcome.

For dementors feed on nothing else but a person's innocent life, planning to strike and kill when available. What they leave behind is a frightening and piercing cold, drowning the victim in a wave of depression as they capture all your happy memories.

John had a bigger disadvantage when he'd discovered last year that the creatures could hurt you so much as to fool you that your loved ones were potentially dying to save your life. When Sherlock had suggested they practice defending themselves from the guards of Azkaban, he'd had a horrible experience with noises in his head that he never expected. Every time he was exposed to a dementor, an agonizing scream would blare in his ears, but he was the only one who could explain it since no one else could hear it. Not only that, but he also frequently heard the blast of an explosion. And it wasn't just it ordinary scream…

It was Sherlock's scream.

That night on the lake shore a Slytherin schoolmate named Jim Moriarty had tortured him so bad that he believed he was witnessing the death of his friend right then and there, when in fact the Ravenclaw was coming to rescue him from a kidnapping. Moriarty had made him shout out in grief with ease, shaking all his limbs and eventually ending his medieval scheme with stabbing the Gryffindor in the neck and injecting poison into his blood. He was lucky enough that his body could take the weight and he fully recovered from the liquid and a stomach injury in a reasonable amount of days.

John closed his eyes and curled his right hand into a fist, letting The Daily Prophet slide down his pants a few centimeters. He felt some strange warm wave run over his skin, a bubble that was sewing up the scratches of his injuries. When he slowly unclasped his hand, the tiny wooden splinter had vanished and his fingerprint had returned to normal.

Following sitting in the heat for another quarter of an hour, John made himself stand up and head off home. As he placed his hands on his knees and prepared to push up into an upright position, he flicked his wrist to check the time on his watch. 14:39. The date also stood out to him, yet he didn't show nearly as much interest as he should have.

July 7th.

Exhaling with the thought of having such a rough life, John gathered his items and shoved them into a spare bag he'd borrowed from his mum. He undid the cap on his water bottle to see if there had been any chance of some last drops, but none fell on his tongue when he tilted the cup at a 75 degree angle. Disappointed, he disposed of it and placed it back in the holder under the seat.

He kicked the stopper and began to walk his bike on up the winding road, waiting till he'd used the crosswalk to start pedaling. He tried to turn the radio on again while it was strapped to the handles, but it did no good as the device had completely given out. He swung his leg over the padded seat and took off, his bag draped over his back and his black All Stars glued to their platforms.

Twice he had to pull over to fix his hair, as it had grown a few inches since his last haircut and now his front bangs stuck out flatly almost farther than his nose. He kept his blonde locks neatly combed and parted slightly off center, his individual hairs sweeping over his skull with an extra flip in front as a finishing touch. Watson could definitely tell sweat droplets drenched his hair as he continued to ride along the edge of the road; he buried his hand back into his luggage and revealed a hand towel with the TARDIS sewn on it and dabbed his shining face. He kept the cloth curved over his shoulder along the ride so he could use it when necessary.

As he got closer to one of the busiest streets in town he heard many car horns beeping at him when he swerved to avoid obstacles in the road. Blinkers warned him of incoming cabs and the crosswalk signs turned white with a stick figure man to indicate that he could walk over the thick stripes in the road. Small businesses run by affectionate families lined the sidewalks, and he briefly glanced in the windows as he rode by on his bike.

Something in particular caught his eye as he passed a clothing store his mother loved to shop at. Dozens of scarves were displayed in the window and one reminded him of Sherlock's scarf he'd given him for Christmas. The child detective loved that scarf. He carried it during all his vacations and wore in during any season of the year.

His vision in the glass substituted and he was able to see the town background behind him, bustling with parents and couples who were trying not to die from the overbearing sun. Not too far ahead the road split in a 'V' shape and a gas station was built in between the intersections. Curious, he reached into his pants' pocket and pulled out some money, suddenly becoming more grateful as the thought of fresh water conquered his mind.

He made sure the road was clear before heading on over to buy a drink, careful to dodge the cars parked out front and the ones that were being filled up with fuel. Very fragile about who stole his possessions, he secured his bike to a rack with a lock and headed inside. The air-conditioned room felt so glorious on his cheeks, and he stayed where he was for a few moments to appreciate the coolness.

He went straight for the refrigerated section of the mini market and scanned the rows of energy drinks, finally spotting a freezer devoted to H₂O. His hand almost froze as he reached in to grab one on the bottom, the label crinkling against his fingernails. His stomach grumbled as he headed for the register and decided to pick up a quick snack as well. He found a shelf with energy bars but noticed cookies instead and selected a nut-free package, trying to cut low on the salts and sugars. _Why not enjoy a couple cookies?_ _After all, it is a very special day for me._

He smiled at the man at the register to show that he was friendly, delicately placing his purchases on the counter. There was a beep each time an item was scanned and the shopper listened for the amount needed to be paid. The cashier told him the price and John eagerly handed over his money.

"Thanks," John said, shuffling his items back. "Have a nice day," he wished.

"You too," the polite man told him. "Try not to stay outside for long. The heat's brutal."

John chuckled. "I won't. Thank you."

The young boy braced himself and rolled his eyes before pushing the shop door open with a jolt of his arm. The temperature melted him as he took one step out the door and scooted off to the side to munch on his delicious treat. He threw the wrapper away in a nearby trashcan before sinking his teeth into the vanilla flavor and smiling to himself.

"Happy birthday, John." He licked his lips, feeling the need to announce the important day to himself out loud. He was just 365 days from becoming a teenager, a scary thought that he didn't want to process too quickly.

Today, he turned twelve.

The cookie was swallowed in his throat with ease and he washed the last crumbs down with a swig of store-bought water. Already feeling 50% better, he swapped out his old water bottle with the new one and unlocked the key chain with his code. It was a four digit password that he'd randomly set a code to and didn't intend to change it for many years to come.

7437.

A vibration from his pocket told him that someone had texted him again. It wasn't a surprise when he pulled it out to find that it was from Sherlock.

**Gotten any more progress done on your book? –SH**

John was half sitting half standing while he tried to find the answer for the brunette. As a returning home gift last year his mum had given him a journal to write in. At first John thought it was a pointless present, seeing as he never wrote in his free time. But then when his parent had asked if he'd used it, she suggested an entertaining idea that would keep him occupied for a long while and help him develop a new skill. Every morning she listened to him rant about his school adventures with Sherlock, leaving out bits and pieces so she wouldn't get worried so much.

When she'd heard quite a load and was delighted to hear more, she suggested that he write it down as a story; to become an author. John was shocked himself by how much of his first year he'd remembered, and yet there was so much he left out as he wrote his tale. He wanted it to be entertaining and contain the most important parts of his educational years at Hogwarts so he could one day tell them to his children.

_That is if I have any…_

He completely spaced out and almost didn't send a digital message back before biking back down the street.

**I think I've gotten a chapter and a half done. Should have a large chunk written by the end of summer. –JW**

He was becoming too hot with his shirt on so it was thrown over his head as he took it off. Underneath it he was wearing a camouflaged Army tank top that showed off his upper arm muscles, clinging to his stomach and stretching down to cover his belt. He looked very much like a young soldier, doing his best of an impression of his father who'd joined the Army when John was a young lad. His body was quite stocky for a young boy, and he'd gained a lot of muscle over the summer from a few sports camps he did with a group of buddies. He now almost didn't have any fat in his stomach at all, but part of that problem was the fact that he'd lost a lot of weight from his strenuous recovery in the hospital wing.

He wiped the perspiration from his face one more time before making room in his bag for his polo shirt. A bit of sweat fell off his eyebrow and stung in his eye, forcing him to rub his irresistibly blue irises from any further damage. Flexing his muscles and stretching out his calves, he put his arms through his bag straps and prepared for the two mile bike back to his neighborhood.

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John tried to play a little game while he biked down the road, attempting to keep the handles straight and coast directly over the white line acting as a boundary for the edge of the pavement. By looking down and keeping his eyes fixed on the road he was able to remain out of the way of traffic and somehow find himself turning onto his street sooner than expected.

He skidded over the small pile of pebbles at the base of his home's driveway and parked his ride in the garage, breathing out a sigh of relief that he'd made it to his destination unscathed. He slipped under the closing door as he made to enter the front door, unlocking it with a spare key his mum had set on the dining room table for him.

He was utterly confused when he heard the echo of the television coming from the room to his left just down the hallway. His bedroom was just past the living room on the ground floor, making it easy for him to roll out of bed in the morning and cook breakfast. He entered the open area and stood in the doorway to find his older sister Harriet sprawled on the leather couch.

"What're you doing here?" he asked, not in a rude way but needing to know. She'd developed quite a temper with her younger brother ever since he'd showed her his special talent, using hand magic to make a stone float in the meadow between his neighborhood and Sherlock's.

"Why do you think? I'm not planning on going anywhere this summer." John rolled his eyes at her laziness.

"Ok, then answer me this; where's Mum?"

"She's out."

"I know that…" _I'm not stupid Harry, _he grumbled, keeping the remark in his mind. "Out where?"

"To get groceries. She was gone after you'd left so early this morning. You would've known if you came home earlier."

"I didn't get up that early. Mum must have just been tired. I got up around 8:30," he pointed out. John narrowed his eyes and left his mouth agape as he was starting to get ticked off at his sibling. He turned to go but paused when he noticed what was playing on the screen.

"What are you watching?" he suddenly wondered, leaning on the cushions that rested on the back of the couch.

"Elementary."

"Really? You're watching American telly?" _God, America is known for some crazy things, but by far Great Britain has better shows on TV. _

"Stop judging me, John," Harriet snapped at him, arching her neck to give him a fierce stare. The birthday brother put up his hands in innocence.

"What's it even about?" he questioned, scrunching up his face as a pair of grownups went running by on the screen.

"A detective who solves cases." For once her tone sounded normal.

John snorted, noting that the room became brighter from the sunlight pouring into the room through the panes of glass. "Sherlock's totally better," he stated, and with that undeniable comment left Harriet to her own business.

His feet carried him into the kitchen and he threw his sneakers into his bedroom as he passed by, longing for a proper lunch. He scanned the cupboards and fridge for some decent food and found a container of noodles hidden behind the milk. Saving a plate he stuck the plastic bowl in the microwave and set a cook time to heat up his afternoon meal. While the appliance hummed in his ear and the strands of spaghetti popped from the torridness, he fished to start a conversation with Sherlock.

**I take back what I said earlier. You can come on over in about an hour. –JW**

The microwave gave off a ding noise and signaled that his lunch was ready to eat. He sprinkled some parmesan cheese over the noodles to add a bit of flavor and sat down at the bar overlooking the kitchen and dining room in their two-floored house. His phone buzzed again, and he picked it up immediately and giggled at Sherlock's agreement.

**Sounds good. I can't stand Mycroft right now. Being his usual git self. Always helps to be around someone like you. –SH**

John's deep blue eyes flashed at the heart-warming fact Holmes had shared with him. He decided to share his thoughts with his best friend about his difficult sibling as well.

**It's not just you. Harriet's also giving me a hard time. She's almost always like that though... –JW**

_Perfect timing._ His sister strutted into the kitchen to fling open a cupboard above the stove, pulling down the box of crackers and…

"Hey, that's my strawberry jam…" John cut in, causing her to glare at him as he tried to prove his point.

"So?"

"Mum bought that for me. Besides, don't you have nutella in there somewhere?" Watson was trying to do anything to make her stay away from his belongings.

"Why does it matter if I eat your jam or not? Mum can always just buy another jar," she argued, becoming even more stubborn. John was not going to lose this fight.

"Because that's for my breakfast! I can't tell Mum to get another container because I didn't know it was so low…Why don't you just keep your paws off and use peanut butter or something?" He felt stupid and shut his eyes tightly.

"God, you can't even remember that your own sister has peanut allergies, John."

"It's not my fault!" he shouted. "You have no idea what I've been through this past year! Jesus, Harry. Can't you be nice and respectful to me just for one day? You never give me any credit for anything."

"What am I doing wrong?" she shouted back, and John opened his mouth even wider.

"I am asking you a simple question: may you please not eat my strawberry jam?" he said, being specific and dropping his harshness to try and be kinder.

Harriet continued to hold the container in her hand. After a couple noiseless seconds she found some words to say back. "I really don't see what the big deal is little brother." She turned on her heel and took the spread with her, ignoring John's request.

"Of all days, you can't even be nice to me on my birthday," John mumbled, twirling his fork to fling a couple noodles around.

He couldn't stand it anymore. The sooner Harriet graduated from high school and headed off to university, the better. Now he really needed company.

**Please come. –JW**

He sent a second text before Holmes could reply.

**If inconvenient, come anyway. –JW**

**Will do. –SH**

John finished his boiling lunch and washed his dish off in the sink, leaving soapy bubbles so it could clean off some of the sauce. He heard a snippet of a sound from the episode Harry was watching but closed his bedroom door to block it out in frustration.

To be honest, even he thought so himself, his room was a mess. School books littered the floor, his Gryffindor robes were draped over his desk chair, and an assortment of wizard sweets were on his bedside table. His Hogwarts trunk was in the far corner and various things were falling out of it, including the white stained shirt that still had some of the poison from Moriarty's needle drained in the fabric.

Having some interest, he rummaged through his school supplies and found some things he didn't want to. One thing he did discover pleased him; hidden in the bottom corner, still gleaming after having been through some toil, was his lucky snitch. He caught it to gain an extra 150 points for Gryffindor, helping to lead his Quidditch team to win the victorious cup. He was the youngest player on the team, and being burdened with that grateful opportunity to play the wizard sport was an occasion he'd never forget.

As if it had been awoken by his touch, the tiny golden ball spread its picturesque wings, showing a silvery material while it floated before his face. For some reason the image of it made a frown come to John's face; perhaps it was the flashback of his first Quidditch match where he'd scraped several layers of skin off his arm, or maybe it was the reminder that Sherlock wasn't at the celebration party after the seeker had caught the tournament winner.

Nevertheless, the snitch must have learned not to fly away from him because it acted like a loyal dog attracted to its owner. By contact again, John grabbed the fluttering ball in his palm and the transparent wings folded back into its body. Instead of putting it in a place for safekeeping, he slipped it into his pocket and concluded that he would carry it around with him, knowing perfectly well it would help him in no way.

Lying on top of his desk was his journal, open to the table of contents. One chapter title was written in pencil, bearing a name John felt offended and depressed when being called; yet ironically, he'd used it in his first piece of writing.

_Different. _

He scooped up a spare writing utensil and his book, slipping on a pair of his favorite sandals as he heading for the backyard. He didn't inform Harry where he was going; he just filed out the back door as smoothly as a shadow.

There was a large oak tree about fifteen yards from the back porch, growing straight out of the center of the ground. Up in the higher and thicker branches was a wooden tree house, glass windows open a crack so critters could crawl in and out. A ladder climbed up to about the middle of the trunk where a platform was nailed, and from there on up a wider staircase led up to the actual hut.

A white fence surrounded the entire property and a community swimming pool was not far up the street. Lounge chairs and a grill were up on the patio, sitting under the shade of a gigantic umbrella. John crossed the yard and took a seat at the base of the tree, pulling his knees into his chest and settling his book in his lap. He glanced up at the sky and watched the puffy, white clouds drift away dreamily for a while, contemplating how to start his next chapter.

He suddenly heard the snap of a twig and turned to react to the noise, only to find nothing was there. A caterpillar crawled on a nearby leaf and munched happily, filling its stomach with many nutrients.

The blonde reached back into his pocket and pulled out his snitch, letting it unfold its wings and fly before his eyes. The flappers beat at over 100 miles per hour, almost resembling and matching up to the speed of a hummingbird. He never got over how beautiful and intricate the patterns on the outer shell were, gazing at the microscopic nuts and vines weaving around the surface. He also enjoyed the soft sound the wings made as it hovered in the air, simply looking like it was floating and connected on a string.

For the millionth time that day his phone made an alert noise, telling him someone was trying to come in contact with him. He set the book down on the ground next to him and let the snitch continue with its actions. Sherlock had come back with a notice for him.

**Turn around. –SH**

The Ravenclaw stood with his iPhone in his hand, leaning up against the pearl white fence gate and wearing his normal dress pants and a purple buttoned-down shirt. Taking his left hand from behind his spine, he brought it in front of his chest to expose a present wrapped in blue paper with a green bow perfectly stuck to the top.

"Happy twelfth birthday, John."

* * *

***I also do not own these songs I used. The lyrics belong to their rightful owners. They are:**

_-Wake Me Up _by Avicii

-_It's Time _by Imagine Dragons


	2. The Hurtful Truth Is Lies

**MCC #2: Reflection Unveils Ocean Eyes (Chapter 2)**

The Hurtful Truth Is Lies

* * *

The normal expectation level of happiness in John's blue irises and smile weren't the same to match his usual cheerful self. When the present was revealed in front of Sherlock's abdomen area, the blonde merely twitched the corners of his mouth in his lame attempt at a smile and turned away. In fact, he even went as far as to ignore the brunette and make Sherlock frown in failure. Holmes did absolutely nothing wrong, it just seemed like the lack of interest was dawning on the birthday boy.

After a few stabbing moments of dissatisfaction, the older friend balanced the weight on his feet and went to find out what was wrong with the twelve-year-old. He strolled over to the opposite side of the tree where John was curled at the base, clutching the earth-colored gift in his hand. The box was a decent size to fit in his palm comfortably, as he had a reasonable amount of room to wiggle his fingers around if the grip felt painful.

John continued to sulk, knees bent into his chest as he stared at his Snitch. The golden sports ball continued to circle the outer edge of his legs, making the boy go slightly cross-eyed as he watched it zoom around. He didn't even stir when the detective happened to be standing with the tips of his toes brushing Watson's sneakers, staring down almost with his neck completely bent over. Playfully, the younger Holmes sibling tapped Watson's calf with his dress shoe, hoping for some sort of gesture to know that the blonde was paying attention. The birthday boy still didn't move. All he did was blink, fluttering his eyelashes and tensing up his upper back muscles.

"Hey," Sherlock said, in sync as he crouched down to find John's eyes, "why the long face?" His voice was so frail as he pressed a hand to Watson's arm, which was bent and stuck out at an awkward angel. "No need to feel blue on your birthday, is there?"

Personally, John didn't understand how Sherlock was acting so unlike himself. What was more was that he looked like he was trying to impress the blonde. The world seemed suspended when he talked in a quiet manner, like sundown clinging onto the existence of darkness for a final bow; a final spotlight before leaving and coming back some other day.

John cupped the Snitch into his left hand, causing Holmes to flinch as his touch was cut off from the younger boy's arm. His hand sank to the dirt, collecting some dust on his pale skin cells as he searched for another method of advice. John was now staring at a specific point with sad pupils, making him resemble a lost kitten. The sight cracked Sherlock's heart in two, but it was re-stitched as he tried to speak for a second time, forced to guess what was bothering the Gryffindor rather than hearing it from the lion as the truth.

"Is Harry ruining your day?" Sherlock referred to the Gryffindor's older sibling by her shortened name, figuring it was easier to say and since John knew what he was talking about anyway. The lion shook his head, lifting up his chin so Sherlock could get a portrait of his full complexion.

"I just assumed so cause you texted me that she was giving you a hard time." The eagle pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages, almost as if to prove it to John and show him. He wasn't looking through their texts together though, because Mycroft had buzzed to Sherlock with a consequence.

**Sherlock, if you don't come back home now, you're going to be in serious trouble. –MH**

**What are you gonna do, give me a detention? –SH**

**Don't give me attitude. –MH**

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting completely on his backside and bringing the iPhone before his nose. "Piss off, Mycroft," he grumbled, feeling that his brother was acting too much like an adult before he even entered his final year at Hogwarts. He didn't want to deal with his stuck-up teenage sibling.

"So, if it's not Harry, then what else is bothering you?" John obviously didn't want to tell him and turned away, trying to avoid Sherlock's gaze and mind his own business. Holmes slouched back on his bottom, curling his spine under him so he could look sterner. "John, enough," he suddenly spat out, and the younger friend actually made an offended face.

"What?" he grumbled, staring right in Sherlock's green eyes as his own molded to have a dark glare to them. They actually absorbed some shadow and Holmes flashed his pupils in alarm. "I'm not doing anything wrong, so why are you bothering me?"

"Because!" It was a lame excuse of an answer; a typical one-worded retort that most little kids give just to get out of an argument. The Gryffindor rolled his eyes and pressed his cheek to his knee, only one ear exposed to his surroundings so he could hear the taller boy's complaints. The Ravenclaw never lost a fight with Mycroft, but when it came to the stockier boy before him, John knew how to bring the heat. He always made sure to make the battle compact and worth every word. When it came to John Watson, he was one of the few people who could directly order Sherlock to give in or shut up.

"You wanted me to come here, and so I did at my own will, but now you're telling me to bug off?" Sherlock pressed his forearms so hard into his calf bones he could feel them rubbing together as he rocked back and forth. He tilted his curly head and almost glared at the back of the birthday boy's locks of hair, but all he got was a groan as Watson continued to block him out. "Seriously, I don't know what you're playing at. I really don't see the chemistry in bringing me here whatsoever -"

"Fine!" John violently spat, throwing his hands up in frustration and surprisingly not startling the eagle. He suddenly curled up in shame, trapping himself in a cage and feeling punished for boiling over too harshly. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, sniffing and taking back his rude remarks from earlier. The immediate change in tone and intensity of John's voice came like a smack to the face and made Sherlock look up in astonishment.

"Oh." The brunette felt stupid and couldn't come up with a more reasonable reply to expose. Of all the words in the human race, he let out the dumbest comment of them all. To back up his low-level status, he wanted to let his friend know that it was nothing to get jittery about. "To be honest, it's -"

"No, it's not," John said, cutting Holmes off before he could finish his assurance. The Ravenclaw went crisply silent and let his lips hang open in an overwhelmed manner. Watson smacked the ground in furry as he was upset with himself. Gathering up a jumble of nonsense, he inhaled sharply and shook as he allowed his words to fall out of his mouth in a sort of monotone. "I'm getting worked up over a stupid suspicion," he stated, switching his position so one knee was bent to the side while he rested his elbow on his vertical leg.

"What?"

"Nothing. It doesn't involve you."

"That doesn't mean I can't be interested." John gave him a sulking look with his mournful eyes, waving Sherlock off with a flick of his wrist.

Sherlock was no getting sick of playing John's guessing game. He wasn't supposed to be forced into doing this, trying to solve the puzzle and work out what was tormenting the lion's brain. He needed to know what it was because of one simple solution; to fix it. There were thousands of things that could be irritating John, but by digging deeper he could reveal what it was and that would narrow his field for advice significantly.

"Come on, John. Tell me what's wrong."

The blonde-haired boy made a sort of croaking noise and tilted his skull in the direction of _The Daily Prophet _lying in the grass by his hip. Sherlock got the mime and collected the newspaper with one swift swoosh of his arm. His eyes contracted when he read the main story's title, clearly disgusted by the minister's choices. He took a few moments of silence to skim over the front page, twisting his eyebrows when he finished and not seeing what was in plain sight in front of him.

"I don't see anything. Just a stupid and messed up editorial on us. Did you not want this to be released to the public or something?"

"No. Why would I have a problem with that?"

"Well, there's nothing else that could be critical written on here." Sherlock flicked his hands and the paper folded in a new deformed figure, but he straightened it out again and waited for a declaration from his shorter friend.

"My blood status." Holmes looked perplexed and checked back in the text for proof. It mentioned John as a Muggleborn, but there seemed to be no mistake in that.

"What about it?" he questioned.

"It's wrong."

"And?"

"Am I supposed to ignore it? Is it some sort of joke? Am I supposed to make something out of that? Cause I definitely did notice it."

"What the hell are you talking about?" John lifted his head up from sulking to stare at his best friend. The older boy was making deductions, considering his pupils were small and he looked way too concentrated.

"It's just a typo," Sherlock said after a few seconds when no reply came. "It means absolutely nothing."

"Does it?" John was so determined he was getting somewhere that he was on his feet in a flash; he actually made Holmes jump he was so alert. The blonde paced back and forth, his hands occasionally clenching and relaxing from fists. "Is that supposed to mean nothing? Do they think they could put that in the news and I wouldn't notice?" He pointed down at the crumpled report in the Ravenclaw's hand and stood staring like an owl, waiting to pounce on its prey.

"How is this getting to you?"

"Sherlock," Watson said threateningly, stopping in his tracks and holding his hands out parallel for the eagle to witness. "This is the Ministry of Magic we're talking out. Clearly, they have all the records of wizards in the world, so I obviously have not been told something."

"Alright, honestly, don't drag me into this -"

"Why? You said you'd help me…" This put a shock to Sherlock, but this had nothing to do with him at all.

After a couple moments of silence, the younger Holmes brother spoke up to try and give his neighbor some advice. "How badly do you want to find out?"

"Find out what?"

"The truth." More silence.

"Sherlock, I _need _to know what's going on."

"Well, deep down, you know who you need to speak to."

_Wow, John's using observation skills. To be fair, I knew he'd find out eventually. Why didn't I tell him in the first place? I just knew it was going to go downhill if I didn't. After all, he couldn't actually believe that about himself, could he?_

_But why didn't I warn him earlier?_

There was a buzz somewhere to John's left and he crinkled up his forehead in mystification. Sherlock's phone had lit up and displayed a message on the screen. By squinting his pupils, John could see that it was a text from the older Holmes brother.

The brunette gritted his teeth in his closed mouth and picked up the electronic device in displeasure. "Go away, Mycroft," he grumbled, reading the dim text in the small bubble dedicated for quick communications. However, this time Mycroft hadn't come back with another threat. Instead, he'd typed back a response that grabbed the attention of his younger sibling.

**Redbeard needs to be taken on his walk. Do it now. –MH**

John only got a faint mutter of the name Sherlock had mentioned, until the rest of his sentence faded as he read it out loud and sank a little in his shoulders when he'd finished. His head collapsed like a great weight but was hauled up with ease again as he furiously tapped on the keys and sent his opinion back.

**He'll be taken care of later. He can wait. I've got far more important things to deal with at the moment. –SH**

John's feet awkwardly shuffled against the prickly soles of his sandals, his faced paused in a sort of mistaken gesture as he pointed towards Holmes's ribcage. He tried to start a conversation for multiple attempts, but nothing came out until he was able to repeat his prepared question in his head three times. He finally got up the ability to a few syllables just because his curiosity was taking over his mind.

"Who's Redbeard?"

Of all the months they'd spent together, Sherlock had never told anyone about who he cared about almost all the time whenever he wasn't occupied with his best friend. His stupefied expression molded into a teeth-baring smile, and he let out a small chuckle while preparing to tell the Gryffindor. He set his iPhone on the ground and let his present join it before going on with a small rant.

"Redbeard is our family dog. He's an Irish Settler with long, floppy ears and a short tail with ruffles that he loves to wag."

John contracted his stomach muscles as he giggled in delight. The sight of it made Sherlock smile as well; he absolutely loved it when John showed his happiness, as he sometimes did something funny on purpose just to hear him laugh. Whatever was upsetting the birthday boy seemed to have been swept from him and sucked into a vacuum, making him perk up and become his unique self filled with amity.

"How did I never know you had a dog? I've been to your house dozens of times…"

"That's because he's usually in the other section of our mansion that you haven't visited yet."

"Oh!" John mocked, trying to tease the brunette and fire his own bad jokes at him. "You mean the section that I haven't been to because you claimed it's haunted?"

"Uh, yeah," the twelve-year-old replied with guilt, finding it unbelievable that he told the blonde such a lie in the first place. "But that wasn't a complete myth! We do believe there's a ghost roaming our house. It's just that we think it's secluded in the attic. You can find all sorts of magical creatures in the homes of wizards." The blonde snorted, agreeing with the fact based on the knowledge from his first year at Hogwarts.

"I'm just worried that one day we'll have to put him down," Sherlock sulked, ignoring the following vibration after his exclamation. Watson looked up at him with distressed irises.

"Why?" he wondered, sounding like another story might break him if the detective said another word.

"Who knows? I overheard Mum and Dad discussing it but was caught snooping. They wouldn't tell me anything when I asked."

"I mystery to us all I suppose," John concluded. "The world may never know."

"Mycroft hasn't got a clue as to what my parents are planning. I just hope they switch their minds quickly and allow him to stay." He was beginning to fell teary-eyed and wiped them away when John wasn't looking. _No, I can't cry here, _he told himself. _Emotions; such a waste of space that could be used for storing information instead._

"I don't want to see him go," the Ravenclaw continued, making it unnoticeable that sentiment was getting to him. "I-I love him."

John stuck a finger in his ear and tried to clear out the gunk in it, obviously thinking he'd misunderstood. _Gross, _he thought, scrunching up his face in a disturbed expression. After the wave of emptiness and bewilderment had passed on and Sherlock seemed to be drowning in a puddle of failure and acting like it was his fault, the blonde broke the tender moment with an honest opinion.

"You know, I think that's the first time I've heard you openly express your feelings towards someone so freely."

"Your presumption is inaccurate, John."

The younger friend gave his buddy a quizzical glance and was lost at the retort that was thrown back at him. "How so?" he asked, waiting for an in-depth response.

"I have fully expressed my affections for a certain someone over the course of the last year and you have been unsuccessful in seeing it. The hints were right there under your nose and you still haven't come to realize their presence."

John was still confused. "What? When?"

"You know what, it doesn't matter." Sherlock was depressed that his best friend wasn't getting the fix on their conversation, seeing as their friendship bond was getting stitched in a tighter pattern every second they spent together. He practically said it directly to his face and the younger boy didn't understand. His perfectly carved hand swooped down to grasp his neatly-wrapped present gleefully, holding it before the shorter kid and urging him to open it with his eyes.

"I thought we were discussing Redbeard…" John pointed out, but when the gift was shoved into his lap he couldn't help but accept it.

"You are what's important right now," Sherlock plainly put it, nodding down upon the box that was now snuggled in John's right paw. "Go on. You know you want to open it."

"You didn't have to get me anything," John inputted, nevertheless untying the symmetrical bow that protected the paper from ripping and served as a piece of decoration.

"You know I would have no matter the situation," Holmes stated. The lion expressed a cheeky grin and tossed the ribbon aside, now tearing back the wrapping paper to reveal a white, square box. One of the corners was bent and the tape securing the lid on tightly had already been sliced for him. Watson slid his fingernail under the tab holding it down and pushed the top up, revealing the contents of what was inside.

It was no surprise to find some sort of padding to keep his present from breaking. Bubble wrap was cleverly folded to hide the gift from view and John popped one before handing the roll over to Sherlock, who took it joyfully and began breaking the clumps of air like an entertained animal.

The simplest deduction the birthday boy could make from the gift was that it was some sort of necklace, judging by the long chain and a sort of charm on the end. At first he thought he'd been given the wrong present but was corrected when he pulled it all the way from the box. Some sort of bronze broach had been fastened to the end of the string, just a plain shape of a rectangle made out of an element from the periodic table. _He's always involving science somehow, _John snickered.

But when John looked closer, a name was scripted on the longer side of the broach into the bronze in a sharp shade of blue, bearing the name in cursive _Holmes. _The younger boy let his fingers run over the flat texture of the metal, and when he flipped it over while twirling it he saw there was more on the backside.

A silhouette a little bigger than his thumbnail was carved into the necklace, making the outline of the shape of Sherlock's upper body. Directly under what would have been his shoulders was his first name, written just as swiftly as it was on the opposite side.

John looked up in amazement to see Sherlock smiling down at him. The brunette suddenly reached down behind the buttoned cloth of his shirt, bringing out to show Watson nothing else than a broach of his own. Only his was gold with a red silhouette.

The silhouette of John Watson.

"Open it," Holmes beckoned, hinting with a twinkle of his eyes as the shorter boy couldn't think of anything to say. John didn't think he could open it, but just below the loop where the string was threaded through he found the tiniest button he'd ever seen. With one light press, the locket flung open to reveal the inside composition.

On both sides of the broach's flat interior was a glossy mirror. The Gryffindor supposed it was just for charming looks, and so he peered into the left one to find his own stunning blue iris reflected back at him. When he looked into the other mirror however, this time he saw a bright green eye watching him with curiosity.

"What?" he gasped, flinging it away suddenly but luring his gift back in hastily to check that he wasn't hallucinating. Sure enough, the green eye was there and looking at him like it always did. That oh so familiar stare that made him tell anything to the Ravenclaw.

"How does that work?" he remarked, finding it odd that Sherlock could look at him through a mirror. "Is it some sort of transport?"

"No," Holmes laughed. "I bewitched it. If and whenever you need me, just look in the right mirror and I will hopefully be there. The broach will give you a signal if one of us is calling the other. Don't worry; nothing serious or distracting. That way, we can communicate with each other whenever it becomes necessary."

John stared at him in pure astonishment, clearly impressed with the eagle's over-the-top qualities added to a simple piece of jewelry. "Clever boy you are," he commented, grinning in excitement. "Mr. Clever, that's who you are."

Before the older friend could ask for any feedback on how the birthday boy liked it or not, he was balled over in a massive hug and had the daylights squished out of him for minutes on end.

He took that indication as a yes.

* * *

It had been two days since John had turned twelve and he'd discussed his doubt about his blood status with Sherlock. The Ravenclaw didn't think it was that big of a deal, but the change from a half-blood to a Muggleborn had quite an effect on the blonde-haired wizard.

He was sitting alone in his bedroom while bending over his journal, stuck at how to play and write out words that would be a treat for a reader when first discovering his and Sherlock's first meeting. He was getting nowhere, especially with his owl Athiel hooting loudly in her cage and the alarm clock ticking on his bedside table. The fury was burning up inside him and his mind was not focused on becoming an author; definitely not when _The Daily Prophet _headline about his encounter with the dementors was sitting directly beside him, taunting him to just do what he desperately needed to.

To search for the truth. More so even, if he had to, to dig for the truth.

He'd had enough. The moving pictures on the front page article were all too familiar from him staring at it for hours on end, reading the same bit of sentence over and over. Now, he was just fed up with people and him not knowing the truth about his own life. Maybe this wasn't a major problem for some other wizards, but he certainly wasn't going to be fooled and messed around with by such things as this. His pencil fell out of his grip and landed with a few clinks on his desk, drawing stray marks on the pages of his book by accident as it wriggled from his touch. John nearly bumped his knee on the underside of the furniture while snatching up the week old copy of _The Daily Prophet. _

The clutter of car keys on the counter signaled that his mum had returned from work. She was the only one who knew the truth; the only one who could sort it all out and owe him the right facts. Taking a deep breath and putting on his best angry face with ease, considering that he couldn't believe he was being lied to, John pulled open his bedroom door and headed straight for the kitchen.

Eventually his feet began to stomp on the polished floor he couldn't contain himself, and when he turned the corner to find his mum's back to him, she spun around in her normal jolly fashion and prepared to greet him. But when she saw the look on her son's face, her heartwarming smile was instantly removed from her cheeks.

"John," she said, cowering back in fear and waiting for an explanation from the short-heighted boy who was approaching her with almost complete hatred. The sun was setting over her left shoulder through the glass window, bringing an orange glow into the room as navy blue clouds prepared to take over the night sky. The sliding door that led to the porch was open and the second screen door let a soft breeze flow into their house. John got a glimpse of their dog Gladstone briefly out of the corner of his eye running about in the yard before he reached the waist-high bar that connected different countertops in the Watson's kitchen.

The front page article was thrown onto the surface so hard it made a cracking noise through the air like a gunshot. John's mum flinched and hovered over him in shock, her eyes passing from his enraged face to the words floating on the wizard newspaper. She gave no hesitation in knowing what it was or showed any sign of confusion as the images were moving.

"John," she tried again, but his spoken name only acted as a trigger to his next move. From a spare cup next to the toaster John pulled out a bright pink highlighter, making sure it was a vibrant color so it would get his female parent's attention at first sight.

He pivoted the folded paper around so it faced him, and found the words he wanted to show her in the blink of an eye. No scanning of the page was required after skimming it so many times, and when he had finished coloring over the six words he'd proved to be correct and the vocal explanation was false, he properly secured and closed the cap on the marker and dropped it onto the marble surface.

His mother bent over to read the words he'd made stick out gingerly, afraid that he might possibly attack her if she made one wrong move. Aware of her mistake as she'd finished, her mouth fell open and she straightened her back to stare down in disbelief at her son.

_Watson, as he is a Muggleborn._

He may have needed six words to show why it lit a fire under his temper, but he only needed one word to fish out the real truth from his mother. And so he spoke the first word he'd said to her since she'd arrived home that day.

"Explain."

* * *

They were now seated together at the dining room table. John just knew as well that Harriet was secretly spying on them in the living room. The only son made sure to sit as far away from his mum as possible, showing his displeasure with her and waiting for his parent to spit out the truth. He was slouching in the chair reserved for his father; the Watson family always kept it empty in hope that he would return one day from war to be able to eat with them all again. John launched himself out of his seat and began to walk around, trying to clear his mind. His mother's eyes watched him with every step.

Thunder rumbled outside and John noticed the clouds from before were raging up a storm. Rain started to lash against the side of the house, beating on the wood porch and causing a small river to flow through the pipes lining the roof outside.

John stopped pacing by the door and crossed his arms. "Care to elaborate?" he projected with sass, nodding his head at the informational text lying in front of his mum.

Mrs. Watson let out a long sigh before concluding that she had to tell her son the obvious. "John," she started, and her son wanted to hear more than just his name since she got home from work. "I was given those objects from my father before he died. And just from gaining those wizard items, I wanted to learn as much knowledge as I could about the wizarding world."

"And you had to lie to me about it?" John asked.

"Sweetie, I'm sorry. There was nothing else I could do, and I didn't want to upset you -"

"You could have just told me from the start. Then I wouldn't have had to go through all this pain. Didn't you ever consider that, Mum?"

"I didn't think it would affect you that much," his mother interjected. "And over the years, I had to weave it around me and your father's relationship, but -"

"Oh, so Dad was in on this too?"

"John…" Mrs. Watson now really sounded hurt.

"So everyone knew about this but me?" John was on the verge of bursting out in rage. He suddenly fell silent and choked out with his next input. "So, there's nothing wizard related with you or Dad?"

Her lips trembled and hung open for a split second before she carried on. "No. Actually, if you really want to know who I am…"

"What?" her son demanded. "Tell me, Mum."

Her body shook all over before she concluded their conversation. "I-I'm a Squib."

John's face simultaneously changed to a crushed expression as hot tear droplets sprung to his eyes. He let one slide down his face and over his cheek before he whipped around and groped to open the porch door.

"John!"

Too late. He'd thrown the door open and hurled himself out into the rain. Gladstone was nowhere in sight, presumably hidden in his doghouse as he bolted across the lawn. When he reached the fence surrounding their property, he could hear his mother shouting for him to come back, but there was no way he would swing back around after what he'd just heard. The gate crashed shut behind him as he ran away, finding himself drenched in the downpour in less than thirty seconds. He didn't want to go back home that night; he'd sit out in the field all night if he had to.

It didn't take long for him to reach the lone oak tree planted in the meadow between the two neighborhoods in his town. Not even the moon was shining through the small gap in the clouds above. He sluggishly came to a halt, bracing an arm against the tree to steady his shaking nerves. Finally, he collapsed and let the weight of his body fall to the dirt at the base of the trunk.

All he did was sit and cry. He needed to get his feelings out about his entire family business. He bent his knees into his forehead and bawled like a child. He let the rain curl into all the cracks and gaps in his clothes, not caring how wet he was by the end of the night.

Over to his right he spotted a yellow light flickering on in an upstairs room. To whom it belonged to, it didn't matter. He smelled fresh water seeping into earth and slipping over the bumps in the tree bark. The grass tickled his bare feet and crickets chirped around to fill a tune in his ears.

His hair was now soaked and because he kept shuffling his hands through his blonde locks it stuck up all over. He felt awkward without his black jacket protecting him, but nothing mattered to him now. Taking it in all at once was too much.

John was suddenly aware of footsteps approaching his crouched figure. He supposed it was his mother; she worried about everything. But he was mistaken when a skinny hand pressed to his shoulder with such known comfort. Even stronger than the usual comfort of a family member.

"John?" Sherlock's deep voice was heard through the loud claps of thunder and flashes of lightning. The sound was blurred but John could still hear it even with buckets of water drowning the insides of his ears.

"John!" Sherlock shouted again, clearer this time and it came from a closer location. "John! What happened?"

The younger boy looked up with stinging eyes. Another flash of lightning lit up his face and the Ravenclaw was able to see how upset his friend was. Then, after a defining sniffle, John yelled out what he needed to, regardless if it made sense or not to the younger Holmes brother.

"I was right! My whole life, it's just one big lie! One enormous lie wrapped up in a truth just to make it stronger!"


End file.
