Harry Potter, Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story is d**edicated to Midnight Ember**, who is writing two of my favorite WIPs: "Cloudier Sky" and "Inheritance". I was getting anxious that she might be losing inspiration, and blatantly bribed her to update and finish "Cloudier Sky" with an offer of a one-shot of her choice pairing. Ms. Ember was already planning on the update, but cheerfully accepted my bribe, too. (Smart woman!) She gave me some pairings she liked, and I decided to up the ante a bit, since this little gem (which will actually be 2-3 chapters) was swimming in my head for far too long.

Anyone who hasn't read either of those stories, I definitely recommend them. There is just something that strikes a chord in me in both stories, but particularly "Cloudier Sky" – I LOVE that story's Voldemort and Harry. So, I guess that settles it for once and for all – I am definitely a Slytherin. Anyone worried about my other stories; fear not. They are moving along, but this is a mental-health break for me. I'm not off-track, so don't worry.

Warnings: Slash, bash and other trash. If you don't like this stuff, GO AWAY. I bet Disney or Nicktoons are having some sort of marathon you'll just adore.

Happy Reading!

WyrdSmith

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**THE LIBRARY**

The large, two-story, rectangular room was known to the residents and guests of the Manor as 'The Library', although in truth it was much more than that. It smelled of rich woods, expensive books, aromatic hearth fire, clean air and that indefinable something that meant comfort, safety – home.

It was decorated in richly-polished woods of various species and heavy, luxurious textiles and hides lined the comfortably-upholstered couches and reading chairs. The entire upper level was open in the center, and lined all around with a beautiful, wide satinwood and eucalyptus balcony and a hemlock railing that provided browsing room. For the fortunate few granted access to the extraordinary room, this balcony lets them peruse the floor to ceiling bookcases to their heart's content. Scattered every twenty feet or so around the railing were comfortable benches with padded side-rests on which to sit for a moment or recline for hours, lost within the words and worlds contained in the rare and wonderful tomes of this very special place. A generously-sized spiral staircase was located in the corner of the outer wall and the entry hall wall, opening directly through the floor of the upper balcony.

The lower level was lined in bookcases, as well, with a set of French doors on either side of the large fireplace that bordered the Manor's Entry Hall. On the opposite wall, a second fireplace mirrored the first, and the French doors bordering it opened into the private terrace and gardens. In the large, open space between the fireplaces were scattered tables located conveniently around two, long couches and a few, luxurious, wingback reading chairs. Along the outer side wall, tall bookcases were interspersed with deepset, long, gothic windows beneath each of which was a comfortable window seat (with drawers beneath) with various portraits on either side of the windows. Along the inner side wall, by the desk, only one door and a built-in bar broke the line of closed, redwood and platinum cabinets. The bar was continually stocked by the Manor's house elves. The door led to a private, luxurious lavatory. On the outer wall of the library sat a piano, with a beautiful violin in an ivory rest atop it and a lovely, heartwood music stand next to it. Across the room, on the wall with the bar, was 'The Desk' for the masters of the manor.

This was a beautiful room, but its truest beauty lay in the fact that it was 'homey'. This was truly the heart of the Manor. It was used for work, study, socializing, relaxing and even loving. Anyone who was welcome here – currently, not a very large number - was close to the masters of the Manor.

At present, the Library was quiet, apart from the steady scratching of well-trimmed quills against highest-quality linen parchment atop the finely-crafted, 16th-century partners' desk situated at an angle in the northern corner of the beautiful room. Two men were seated in their respective, abraxan-hide executive chairs, facing each other from either side of the large partners' desk. Both were deeply lost in thought, concentrating heavily on their respective projects. Books, charts and files were scattered across the large surface of the exquisitely crafted desk.

One of the men, who was seated with his back to the bar, leaned back in his chair and stretched long, powerful arms over his head in a back-cracking stretch. Dropping his arms to rest his hands behind his head, he raised thoughtful, crimson eyes to stare at the ceiling, still concentrating deeply on the puzzle that plagued them both.

Across from him, his partner glanced up and watched, his unusual blue-gray eyes sharp and observant. These two men had been together for over ten years now, certainly long enough to know each other very well, indeed. Smiling slightly, he folded long arms and leaned back gracefully, as well, content to enjoy the sight before him as he waited for his beloved to chase and contain whatever thought was haring through his incredible mind. He loved moments such as this, when his partner's brilliance surpassed his power, which was already extraordinary. In such moments, it was as if his partner's magic bowed to the man's intellect and his eyes always fairly glowed with the intensity of thought. At present, Thomas's eyes looked like living blood rubies, casting a slight, rosy glow over the strong face and pale skin and making him look every bit as otherworldly and dangerous as the man truly was.

Thomas was fully aware of his partner's observation, and welcomed it. He treasured having the beautiful, storm cloud gaze upon him, burning with curiosity and love. When Sherlock looked at him this way, somehow everything that Thomas was became enhanced – his thoughts became clearer, his intuition more daring, his logic more precise. Smiling gently as he lowered his ruby gaze to catch the tanzanite stare, he quirked a dark, winged eyebrow in inquiry, and smirked when Sherlock rolled his eyes in pretend annoyance.

"Don't be tiresome, Thomas. What have you deduced?" Sherlock's drawl was as practiced and perfect as that of any Slytherin, despite the fact that he was, to all intents and purposes, a muggle.

Thomas's smirk widened into a genuine smile of appreciation, showing off his nicely-formed lips and beautiful teeth, and lighting up his face in a way that still made Sherlock catch his breath after all these years. "I have definitely completed all of the arithmantic potentialities with 100% accuracy. The star charts are complete and correct. The heritage potion is complete and aging according to Salazar's given timetable. I am ready. You?"

Sherlock's elegant face wore a look of deep satisfaction. "I have completed all of the runic diagrams according to the le Fey journals. I have obtained an agreement with Gringott's to forestall all inquiries into the matter in exchange for my assistance with their little theft problem. And I have traced the bursts of Natural magic over the past decade and identified a twenty-square-kilometer range in which resides our quarry." He ignored Thomas' derisive snort at Sherlock's dismissive reference to the goblins' 'little theft problem'. To Sherlock, it had been the matter of a few hours' observation and deduction; to the goblins, Sherlock had solved a theft ring that had plagued the Wizards' Bank for nearly seven years and would have cost them huge fines and sanctions had word of it leaked to their customers or to the Ministry.

Thomas's eyes narrowed as he processed Sherlock's words. Leaning forward to stare closely at his brilliant beloved, he said warningly, "You had better be speaking flippantly when you say Gringott's will do this little task 'in exchange for' your assistance. They owe you a massive debt, one which their own honor and business practices will probably assign as a blood debt to your entire Line in perpetuity. If you try to dismiss the whole thing for a pittance, I will personally get involved in it, Sherlock." He met the man's immediate glare head-on and ignored his air of affront. Sherlock was far too casual about the value of his work, and Thomas would be damned if he let anyone take unfair advantage of his extraordinary lover.

Sherlock kept glaring at his arrogant partner, willfully ignoring the warmth in his chest at the man's protectiveness. Normally, Sherlock loathed it when anyone tried to 'take care of him' – his own brother, Mycroft, could provide numerous examples of how virulent Sherlock could get if he suspected anyone of 'coddling' him – but somehow, when Thomas did it, all Sherlock managed to work up in terms of emotion was this irritating happiness and a secret joy in being protected. It annoyed him immensely; even in a world of wizards, Sherlock Holmes did NOT require anyone's protection, thank you very much.

Despite the warmth, he also felt the buzz of too much information slowly pushing him into ever-greater sensitivity and irritation. Damn it, they needed this search to be done already! Thomas was extraordinary, but until this search was complete, Sherlock would be ever more susceptible to these damnable bouts of overwhelming, irritating _sensation_. God, it was just too much! And Thomas was _deliberately_ pushing him; he could see it in the set of the man's jaw.

Finally surrendering to the uncompromising crimson stare, Sherlock huffed irritably and spat, "DO remember that I am not your little toady Pettigrew nor any of your other idiotic club members, Thomas. I may not particularly care about matters of money, but I do fully appreciate the value of being owed very large favors by very powerful people. You may withdraw your laser stare; I have not disappointed you in this." He pushed his chair back and rose abruptly, whirling to stalk to the French doors, intending to take himself, his hurt pride, and his god-damned vibrating mind into the garden for a brisk, angry stroll.

He got as far as the door before his hand was covered by a slightly larger, stronger hand and removed from the platinum doorknob. Before he could react with the sudden rage he felt at being denied his escape, he was pulled into warm, powerful arms against a firm, strong chest. His hair was seized in a tight grip that pulled his head back, and just like that, Sherlock found himself being forcefully kissed by Lord Thomas Voldemort in all his aroused, dominant glory. Knowing it was useless to attempt to extricate himself from the confining arms – even had he wanted to, which he most certainly did not – Sherlock threw himself into the fight and chose to battle fire with fire. Long, toned arms snaked upward to seize Thomas's dark chocolate hair and grip tightly, pulling the powerful wizard's head forward into the kiss that Sherlock fought to dominate. Sherlock was all sleek lines and toned muscles, strong and defined and deadly when he wanted to be. Thomas was strength and power, tall and lean and long and beautifully proportioned. Individually, they were unique, wonderful, beautiful. Together – they were indefinable.

They were the Masters of the Dark.

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**FIRST MEETING**

They had met just over a decade ago, when the brilliant, muggle Consulting Detective had followed every bizarre clue to a ridiculous deduction that had no recourse but to be true. Rather than even bother trying to prove it to those who would doubtless wish to institutionalize him, he had sent Mycroft his logs on the case and then set off on a journey to find proof. It had not escaped his brilliant mind to realize that this could not be a new power; that magic, whatever it was, had to be organized somehow, administered, managed, regulated … and populated. He could easily see excellent reasons why such an ability should remain secret from the majority of the world as he knew it. The only reason he even gave his logs to Mycroft – apart from trying to reassure his brother, which he would never admit to – was because Sherlock was certain that Mycroft already knew of this world. He was far too powerful to be unaware of it.

So, Sherlock had deduced his way into an intercept course with a Death Eater raid, had observed the efficient, organized attack from a safe location, and had allowed himself to be 'captured' by the powerfully-built, arrogant blond man in the silk robes and escorted to Lord Voldemort. After all, how else to get all of the answers and feed his ravenous mind than to go to the top of the 'food chain', as it were? He had been taken into what appeared to be a ballroom, bound by magic and witness to numerous other examples of it, and led to the front of the room to be thrown to the floor in front of a dark-robed figure seated on a throne on a dais.

Rather than cower in fear, or bellow belligerent and foolish threats, Sherlock had simply seated himself comfortably on his knees, raised his eyes to curiously study the remarkably handsome face of the ruby-eyed man, who studied him in silence with equal interest. After several moments of mutual evaluation, Sherlock quirked a half-grin at the man and said, "You know, I was able to figure out where your people were going to attack after just four hours of studying the data. I had minimal knowledge of this world, which I deduced within three weeks of finding the first clue. I had no information on names, places or abilities, and yet I tracked you all down in half a day."

He watched in fascination as the man's red eyes sharpened and stared into his own, and suddenly felt a distinct presence sweeping into his mind and inspecting his mind-palace with a pronounced sense of curiosity. At the time, Sherlock had the feeling that he could actually force this man back out of his mind, and was shocked to hear an amused baritone within his thoughts say quietly, 'Indeed, with a mind of this quality and this well-organized, you probably could do just that, Mr. Holmes, which is remarkable in and of itself. However, I recommend against it; the headache will be excruciating and I will not allow anyone to treat you for it. Just cooperate for a few moments, and we will go from there.'

Sherlock absorbed the sensations within his mind, which oddly enough given his intense need for privacy did not feel unwelcome, and then carefully and clearly formed the words, 'Fine. But if you do any damage, I will make it the goal of my life and my death to bother you about it til we are both nothing better than amoebas.' The man's presence in his mind filled with appreciative amusement, and then Sherlock was treated to the bizarre experience of having his memories carefully rifled through like precious books in a library. He found himself flinching away from a series of incidents where various people he had encountered called him 'freak' and other such insults, and was astonished to feel the man in his mind rumble soothingly against his embarrassment.

After what may have been minutes, or hours, the man gently withdrew from Sherlock's mind, leaving behind the sensation of a final caress that left Sherlock blinking slightly, a slight blush on his pale cheeks. Focusing, he looked around and realized he was still on his knees on the floor of the ballroom, and the ruby-eyed man was now standing in front of him, offering a hand to help him to his feet. The stir of mutters and whispers from the gathering of masked, be-robed people in the room at their leader's courtly action won them a hard-eyed glare from the powerful man that effectively silenced the room.

Gaining his feet, Sherlock was embarrassed to find himself wobbling on numb legs, and clinging to the other hand that rose to support him as he fought for balance. Refusing to be vulnerable, Sherlock raised an expressionless face and stared directly into the beautiful, red eyes that watched him with amused interest and a look of understanding. Once again, a wave of unrest swept through those gathered, this time apparently at Sherlock's disrespect in looking their leader in the face. Sherlock could not contain his disgusted sneer at the sycophants, winning from the other man a rich chuckle that sent an unexpected shiver of reaction down Sherlock's spine. He was completely confused by his response; considering that, after gathering adequate data and personal experiences at university on the subject of sex, Sherlock had determined it wasn't worth all of the fuss and had chosen asexuality. The ripple that just ran over his nerve endings at the man's chuckle, however, was anything but asexual. How very disturbing.

As soon as his legs allowed him to do so, Sherlock dropped his hands and stepped back, consciously assuming control of himself and regaining his pride. Rather than disapproving, the red-eyed man nodded as if in confirmation of some private thought and gestured for Sherlock to follow. As they left the ballroom, the powerful man said over his shoulder to the commanding blond who had brought Sherlock in, "Well done, Lucius. Follow the usual protocols and then dismiss everyone. If anyone mentions this gentleman's presence, or harms or disrespects him in any way, I will feed him or her to Nagini – alive."

And as the graceful, double doors closed behind Sherlock and the red-eyed leader of the first wizards he had ever seen, the courtship and bonding of the brilliant, beautiful muggle and the powerful, intelligent wizard began.

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**BACK IN THE LIBRARY**

A decade later, and here they were, locked in another of countless battles for dominance using lips and tongues and teeth and numerous little bits of sensuous information they each knew intimately about the other. Sherlock fought valiantly, but in the end, as was usually the case, it was he who found himself bent over the desk, clothing around his ankles and shoved up to his ribs, moaning and gasping and shuddering in pleasure as Thomas held him down and thrust powerfully into his receptive body. And as always, when Thomas took Sherlock's control from him and forced the genius past the point of thought and analysis and _information_, Sherlock's body responded to his powerful lover the way Sherlock's violin responded to him. His body _sang_ for Thomas. He _resonated_. He wailed, and quivered, and moaned, while Thomas played him like an expert musician, wringing a symphony of purest sensation from the beautiful body beneath him. And when the music culminated in a triumphant clash of chorded muscles and ecstatic pulses of pleasure, Sherlock was once again treated to the incomparable sensation of being surrounded by the loving protection of Lord Thomas Voldemort. The larger body was draped atop his slimmer, toned form, covering him and keeping him safe as Sherlock's body spasmed and shuddered, pleasure forcing his mind to settle, to quieten, to rest.

For Sherlock, this was bliss.

For Thomas, this was joy. As his beloved settled beneath him, he kept his larger body pressing him down, keeping Sherlock grounded and safe as that unique, desperately busy mind decided whether it needed to 'reboot', as Sherlock said, or whether it wanted to hibernate for a while longer. Thomas knew that, for Sherlock to gain the respite he needed – as was evidenced by the younger man's extreme offense earlier – he had to convince Sherlock's _instincts_ that he was safe, weary, comfortable, protected. Thomas used every bit of his formidable skill to do just that – purring reassuringly in his lover's ear, pressing his body down firmly but comfortably to keep him grounded, magically enhancing the beat of his heart against Sherlock's sweaty back and sending gentle, warm pressure against delicate eyelids to keep them closed, forcing Sherlock's breathing to match his own, steady breaths, overwhelming each and every sense his lover had with the information that he was with Thomas and safe, safe, safe.

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**THE PACT OF NEW BLOOD**

Eventually, Thomas was certain that Sherlock had allowed himself to descend into that state of being that meant rest and safety for submissives. Keeping his large hand pressed reassuringly between Sherlock's shoulder blades, Thomas raised himself upward, gathered their scattered belongings with a wave of his hand, and apparated them both into the Masters bedroom. They landed smoothly on the huge bed, with barely a bump or vibration to disrupt Sherlock's peace. Smoothing his hand over the chestnut curls that fell softly around the sharp cheekbones and long eyelashes of his surprising beloved, Thomas vanished all of their clothing and cleaned them both, then settled comfortingly behind Sherlock and pulled the smaller man back against his warm chest. Wrapping strong arms around his precious, private genius and drawing the soft blankets up around them both, Thomas let his own mind settle as he considered what they had accomplished today.

All the steps were complete. All the research was done. All that remained was the Scrying Ritual, and then he and Sherlock would find their Third. All they knew was that the missing third member of their union was male, younger than them both, and a descendent of Morgana le Fey. They had always been aware of the imbalance in their union, despite their joy and comfort in each other. Sherlock and Thomas had never been less than entirely forthright with each other, both blessed or cursed with an inability to care overmuch about tact. They were capable of it, certainly, but did not use it unless it was necessary – and with them, it was not.

It was a goblin, surprisingly enough, who had given them the information they needed to know. Steelmind, the account manager for Voldemort in his own right and as Slytherin's heir, had actually smiled when Thomas brought Sherlock in and introduced them. A goblin's smile is an intimidating thing, much akin to the predatory grin of a crocodile. Typically, Sherlock's reaction had been blunt and uncomplimentary, which had instantly won Steelmind's friendship because Sherlock 'thinks like a goblin'. Thomas still smiled whenever he recalled the befuddled look on Sherlock's face when the compliment was uttered. And then, Steelmind had forced them both to sit down, a feat which still puzzled Thomas, and began to explain about the Slytherin-leFey Pact of New Blood.

It was a promise between the Lines, set in blood and magic by Salazar Slytherin and Morgana LeFey nearly two millennia ago. Its purpose was to unite and re-ignite the two magical Lines should they be in danger of fading, and to include in the reborn Line a Founder or Parent who best represented the next most powerful race living in the world at the time the Pact of New Blood Ignites. It was an inspired condition, really, considering the current conflicts in the magical world concerning muggles. The completed Pact of New Blood would include three Heirs to their respective Line or species: Slytherin, Muggle and … le Fey.

The news that the Dark Lord Voldemort was bonded with a muggle, even one as extraordinary as Sherlock Holmes, had shaken the Death Eaters until they settled into the new power structure, and had completely overturned the Light's main argument against Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Yes, they were violent and they were definitely agitating for massive change in the wizarding world, but no one who had ever witnessed Thomas and Sherlock together, or who saw the great respect the Death Eaters held for their Lord's muggle Bonded, could ever again say with any seriousness that the Dark hated muggles.

And they didn't. They didn't love muggles, anymore than a dog loves a cat or a vampire loves a werewolf. The Dark, even more than the Light, respected the spirit of the planet and the spirit of magic, and felt a certain reverence for any species created by the two. That did not make them blind to the realities of the species, however. They deplored many of the circumstances that surrounded muggles and muggleborns. They loathed the damage being done to the magical world by those who carried the false banner of protecting mugglebords. They despised the damage being done to the natural world by the muggles themselves. They were determined to control and correct the harm that muggles represented, but they did not hate muggles, per se.

Although, they _did_ hate blood traitors. And wasn't it fun to watch their enemies struggle to understand how the Dark could seemingly be accepting of their muggle Lord Consort but be virulent about pureblood families like the Weasleys and muggleborns like the Creeveys? Personally, Thomas believed that they would never figure it out on their own. Sherlock agreed; after all, he had spent his entire life watching people who could see but did not observe.

And so, Thomas and Sherlock bonded, ensuring that two-thirds of the Pact of New Blood was united: the Slytherin heir and the Muggle heir. Frankly, given Steelmind's joke that Thomas was fortunate that dementors, acramantulas and mermen didn't have worldwide political power, Thomas had even more reason than before to treasure Sherlock.

The news that there was a surviving direct descendent of Morgana le Fey had come as a shock for everyone, even the goblins. However, the runes in the Slytherin records had fully activated the prior week, having come to light the moment of Thomas and Sherlock's first physical bonding, and proving that all three requirements for the completed Pact of New Blood lived. The specifics of the Pact were clear, and had been well-thought-out by their ancestors. When each of the two powerful magical Lines were in danger or had not received an infusion of strong blood and magic in a number of generations, the parameters of the Pact of New Blood Spell began to activate. Thomas was the Slytherin component of the Pact. Sherlock was the Balance, and would re-infuse logic into the new line. They were missing their le Fey, who would be someone gifted in the aspects of the natural world, and possibly emotion. Each of the three were brilliant and artistic; even without knowing their third, they knew he would be these things because, if he wasn't, the Pact could not have activated. Somewhere, there was a wizard who was younger than they, close to nature, artistic, brilliant and – if their own circumstances carried through – lonely.

Tucking the blankets a little more closely around Sherlock, Thomas settled more comfortably against the toned back and felt the heaviness of sleep begin to take him over. He moved a hand soothingly over Sherlock's stomach as he felt the younger man's arm stretch out, reaching for the third body that should be in bed with them, but wasn't. Thomas nuzzled Sherlock's neck and pulled a pillow over to settle against his lover's abdomen, sighing in regret as the man whined discontentedly even as he drew the pillow close. Soon enough, there would be no more need for such a dissatisfying substitute.

They had done all the necessary research. They had done everything they could to prepare. And they were ready for him. These two strong, beautiful men wanted and needed their Third. His absence was becoming painful the longer they went without him. But the end was drawing near. Moon Dark was in three nights. They would conduct the Ritual and tap into the natural world that loved their Third as much as they would.

And then, they would have him.

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**A/N:** Love to all my good friends, and all my wonderful readers and reviewers. I needed to get this written; it was a migraine-creation that would not step back for me until I put it through my keyboard. I expect there will be two more chapters. Dare I offer them as ransom to **Midnight Ember**? Or, maybe y'all could just read "Cloudy Sky", too, and review her to death for me. Am I abusing my power? Hell, yes! Hello, Slytherin at heart!

So, what do you think of this story so far? Don't be mean, please; still kinda fragile.

Blessed Be!

WyrdSmith

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**A/N2**:

Thank you. Blessed Be.

WyrdSmith


	2. Meeting the Third

**A/N:** Dedicated to **Midnight Ember**, author of "Cloudier Sky" and "Inheritance". C'mon, Lady, let's see more of both fics (but especially "Cloudier Sky", cuz that's my favorite). Pleeeeeease? I'll give you lemons!

**WARNINGS & RANTS:** _**Slash, bash and other trash.**_ No offense to Disney, which I enjoy, but this ain't it, folks!

And this warning is especially written to and for the wannabe-outed flamer who reads my stuff, pretends he's horrified that he unintentionally read about gay love, and leaves repugnant reviews using the words 'fag' & 'faggot' over and over as if they are actually hurtful. (Dude, it's French for "bundle of sticks". Um… ouch?) Anyone who wants to see who the moron is, check out the April reviews on "Demon Team" – you can't miss it; it's all caps and clearly from a very stupid person who can't read, think or face himself in a mirror.

**To that reviewer, and those like him/her/it, who pretend to be surprised they have stumbled onto a gay romance and berate me for not warning them adequately beforehand, see if this is clear enough:** I write about gay men who like to kiss, lick, fuck, suck and rim each other. Whether I am explicit or not, I am writing about men who put their cocks and tongues into each other's bodies – every available orifice and then some - and we dedicated readers are CHEERING THEM ON! These exquisite, homosexual characters are beautiful, sexy, intelligent, funny and beloved – everything you, bigoted little queen of denial that you are, will never, ever be. Go ahead and wallow in your jealousy, pretend you don't have a hard-on or a buttery feeling down below as you read the sex scenes (several times!), and leave your "I hate gays – really!" reviews that only show the world how much you wish you were one of my leading suckable, lickable, fuckable, homosexual men. I suspect you do this just because you like it when people say you are 'flaming'. When Shakespeare said "methinks thou doth protest too much", he was talking about YOU. (Actually, so was Freud, and probably numerous restraining orders.) And if you really can't face the fact that many of us like to write and read AU and OOC, and if you _prefer_ to shriek (like the gayest of gay males) about how none of these characters are gay in canon, I will remind you that even Harry Potter came out of his closet by age eleven.

Okie-dokie, my fellow fangirls, fag hags, wanna-be-rimmed-by-Lucius-Malfoy, free-spirited and unafraid of stupid words and stupider people readers – here is my next installment about THREE GAY MEN WHO WANT TO GET NAKED AND HORNY TOGETHER FOREVER. (Was that clear enough, my friends, or do I need to provide stick figure illustrations? Could be fun; I draw really long sticks. I guess that means, in French, I'm drawing faggot pictures, eh?) Happy Reading!

WyrdSmith

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**End of Chapter 1**

Tucking the blankets a little more closely around Sherlock, Thomas settled more comfortably against the toned back and felt the heaviness of sleep begin to take him over. He moved a hand soothingly over Sherlock's stomach as he felt the younger man's arm stretch out, reaching for the third body that should be in bed with them, but wasn't. Thomas nuzzled Sherlock's neck and pulled a pillow over to settle against his lover's abdomen, sighing in regret as the man whined discontentedly even as he drew the pillow close. Soon enough, there would be no more need for such a dissatisfying substitute.

They had done all the necessary research. They had done everything they could to prepare. And they were ready for him. These two strong, beautiful men wanted and needed their Third. His absence was becoming painful the longer they went without him. But the end was drawing near. Moon Dark was in three nights. They would conduct the Ritual and tap into the natural world that loved their Third as much as they would.

And then, they would have him.

ooooooooooooooooooo

**CHAPTER 2: FINDING THE THIRD**

Thomas and Sherlock watched, silent and invisible, as daylight slowly revealed the charming little cottage and its remarkable gardens. They had successfully completed the scrying ritual at moon dark, and the results that showed in the silvery waters of Morgana le Fey's liquid looking-glass had led the mates here, to this private stone cottage with its pink roses and trailing vines, its gothic windows, its unparalleled gardens, and its precious, priceless resident – Harris Jamison Potter.

Settling himself more comfortably against the strong frame of his bonded, Sherlock carefully observed every available detail of the property before him, filing details and making deductions even as he reflected back on the moment that Thomas realized the exact identity of their elusive third mate.

ooooooooooooooooooo

**The Epiphany of Moon Dark**

Thomas had moved mechanically, automatically, as he helped Sherlock de-tune the scrying circle and clean up the candles and other supplies. His expression had become remote and troubled as soon as the vision of the exquisite young man with vivid green eyes had come into focus on the surface of the silver waters. Sherlock had been momentarily captivated at the image, uncharacteristically silent as his tanzanite gaze swept reverently over the delicately masculine features of their longed-for third mate. Only when the image had begun to ripple and fade back into the waters had Sherlock realized that Thomas had not uttered a single word.

When they returned to their beloved Library, Thomas had immediately moved to pour himself a cognac, automatically fixing a tall, iced glass of Irish tea for Sherlock. The minty cocktail had quickly become Sherlock's preferred drink when Lucius Malfoy had prepared one for him during Thomas and Sherlock's betrothal party. Sherlock smirked reminiscently, thinking of how the dignified Malfoy Lord had struggled to keep a straight face when Sherlock had adamantly refused to allow Thomas to issue invitations to the event using the preferred wizarding title. Sherlock had stated emphatically, "If I received an invitation to a 'bonding ball', I would be expecting leather, chains and some form of cock rings, or possibly straps for my testicles. How can you possibly expect me to maintain any form of decorum with _that_ in my mind?" Thomas's crimson eyes had danced with laughter as he charmingly conceded the point to his acerbic mate and instructed an amused Lucius to re-word the invitation in a manner suitable to his 'sensitive mate's perverted sensibilities'. He had then bid Lucius goodnight, and spent the next several hours personally instructing his pouting mate in the delicate art of cock rings and silk ropes.

At least Sherlock had finally learned the reason why Thomas had darkly smirked at his mate's sarcastic description of their huge bed's new headboard as 'ideal, if one wishes to interrogate a prisoner'. Really, Sherlock could be embarrassingly naïve at times.

This, however, was not one of those times. Thomas had handed Sherlock his drink and then settled into his comfortable reading chair, staring into the fire, silent and intense. Knowing that his powerful, brilliant lover was working through all of the ramifications of what he had just learned, Sherlock forcibly restrained his innate impatience and settled on the couch, kicking off his shoes and pulling his long legs up to his chest as he studied Thomas, replayed his memory of the beautiful face in the scrying waters, and waited.

It was several long moments later when Thomas blinked a few times and looked over at Sherlock, smiling fondly at the way his beloved was sitting. "You are ridiculously limber, my love," he commented, taking a long drink of cognac before setting the glass onto the side table.

Sherlock retorted smartly, "Good luck with enjoying any of it, if you don't tell me what's troubling you sometime in the immediate future." He extended his legs out for a moment, stretching luxuriously to remove the last traces of soreness from the long effort of the night's scrying (which had involved far too much kneeling on a stone floor, in Sherlock's opinion) before tucking them to the side on the couch and leaning forward a little to place a slightly chilled hand on Thomas's arm. They had been together just over ten years now, and were very much attuned to each other's moods and body language. Thomas was definitely worried.

Thomas studied his 'remarkable muggle', as he sometimes called Sherlock, with affectionate eyes. He truly cherished his brilliant mate, and savored every minute of the time he spent with the man. Even as they both acknowledged and worked to fill the aching, empty spot in their union, committed to locating and retrieving the missing third member of the Pact of New Blood by any means necessary, they had developed a remarkable bond together. They could conceivably live their entire lives, bonded only to each other, and be happy; but it had never occurred to either of them that they might have to do just that. They had never considered the possibility that their elusive third mate might want to have nothing to do with them.

Until now.

Sighing deeply, Thomas moved his arm and quietly took Sherlock's cool hand in his own. He tightened his grip subconsciously, his body telling Sherlock of Thomas's need to hold tight to his mate. Sherlock flowed forward, unselfconsciously dropping to the floor in front of Thomas's chair and gracefully wrapping long arms around the wizard's legs. Resting his chin on Thomas's knee, Sherlock gazed up into the strong face and crimson gaze and waited.

Thomas settled a long-fingered hand in the soft, chestnut curls, absently carding through the silken hair and gently massaging Sherlock's scalp as he began to explain.

ooooooooooooooooooooo

**HARRIS JAMISON POTTER**

Studying the pretty little cottage as the morning sun rose fully, Sherlock reflected on the history Thomas had given him about their unsuspecting little mate.

It seemed that Harris Jamison Potter had been named as the subject of a vague and oddly-worded prophecy by a mostly-drunken Divination Professor at Thomas's alma mater, a wizarding school known (ridiculously) as 'Hogwarts'. Based on that prophecy, the so-called 'Leader of the Light', a reasonably powerful wizard (magically and politically) named Albus Dumbledore, had tried to lure Thomas into making some form of assassination attempt on the baby Harris in a thinly-disguised effort to entrap and probably execute Thomas. It seemed that Dumbledore was passionately opposed to everything Thomas believed in and worked for, and had taken great exception to Thomas's use of every means available, including violence and a certain amount of terrorism, to protect the Dark. Sherlock had been cynically unsurprised to learn that those who supported the 'Light Side' of the conflict were largely unaware or uncaring of the fact that they essentially were fighting against the preservation of the natural world, of Old Magic, and of Magic herself. Propoganda painted Dark Magic as evil, and that was all Dumbledore and certain members of the Ministry needed to gain and retain power and profit.

Dumbledore had been delighted with the prophecy and had immediately declared it to be valid and vital in the battle of 'good versus evil'. He announced to "certain people" that Harris was to be the vanquisher of the Dark Lord, setting Thomas and Sherlock's poor little mate up for a life of ridiculous pressure and expectations. He had even gone so far as to set a trap, in the form of a 'secret location' for the family in hiding, revealed to Thomas by the unusual (suspiciously so) brilliance and loyalty of the inept toady Peter Pettigrew. Dumbledore had even baited the trap with the infant Harris, a fact that disgusted everyone who knew and understood that Harris's parents, James and Lily Potter, had allowed Dumbledore to use their own baby as a lure for the most powerful, most dangerous, most deadly wizard alive.

Thomas had made certain that 'everyone' literally meant _everyone_.

He had turned the tables on the Potters and Dumbledore when he allowed himself to be interviewed by Rita Skeeter, a virulent reporter for the _Daily Prophet_, and Xenophilius Lovegood, owner of _The Quibbler_. In the joint interview, Thomas had sworn a wizard's oath to tell the truth regarding the subject of the article, and then explained to the shocked wizarding public everything there was to know about the questionable prophecy, the circumstances in which it was given, how he learned about it, what Dumbledore and the Potters had done, etc. The public backlash against the Order of the Phoenix, particularly the Potters, had been profound, and caused many people to question the motivations, knowledge and intelligence of Albus Dumbledore.

Just the fact that he and the Potters had set up a Fidelius charm around the Potter Family cottage in Godric's Hollow was enough to make most people question Dumbledore's actions. James and Lily had been given that house by Charlus Potter as their wedding present. Heavily featured in numerous books and magazines for its charming décor, and talked about at one time or another by at least a third of the citizens of wizarding Britain, Potter Family cottage was far too well-known a location for the Potters. The fact that its location was common knowledge in the wizarding world was impossible to conceal; it would have impacted far too many publications and minds to be effectively hidden. It was ridiculous that Dumbledore and the Potters would attempt a Fidelius on that home, and the choice to do so was in itself a testament to the Light's failure to understand magic and nature. Magic works _with_ the laws of nature, not against them. A Fidelius charm exists to preserve a confidence, a secret – for that to occur, it must be employed on something that was, in fact, secret.

Thomas had laughed in the interview, commenting that the illustrious Leader of the Light seemed to have confused the function of the Fidelius charm with the Mass-Obliviation hex. One cannot use the Fidelius to erase the memory and printed matter of the entire wizarding world on a particular, very well-known fact. If that were possible, then why would Dumbledore not have Fidelius'd Harris himself, rather than a house in which the child could be trapped? Or, if the man wished to argue about applying the charm to people versus objects, why not relocate the Potter family to one of their more obscure manors, with a great deal of land for the child to explore rather than be confined to a single house, and Fidelius that? Or was it their intent to confine the poor boy in a rigid, unnaturally constrained environment until such time that the supposed prophecy was somehow no longer valid?

Thomas had then gone on to speak about his ideals, the goals of the Death Eaters, the truths about what damage and risk were incurred every month from the uncontrolled advances of muggle technology, etc. With that one interview, Lord Thomas Voldemort gained the support and interest of roughly half of the wizarding world, and Dumbledore and the Potters became the focus of close scrutiny by the awakened public.

Dumbledore had continued to agitate and pontificate about the infamous prophecy, going so far as to declare young Harris Potter 'the prophesied savior' of the wizarding world. They ignored proper wizarding culture in favor of what Thomas coined 'smuggle' manners, and did their best to get the public to disregard all etiquette and refer to the Heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter as 'Harry'. The poor child had been the victim of both public adulation and scorn. His parents – arrogant, impulsive James Potter and his smug, overbearing wife Lily - raised Harris in an environment designed to create a self-sacrificing hero, the perfect Gryffindor as determined by James Potter and Albus Dumbledore.

They willfully ignored the fact that Harris was, in fact, a Ravenclaw.

Sherlock sneered as he ruminated on that particular fallacy. It was insulting of the vaunted Marauders and their officious sponsor Dumbledore to decide that the perfect Gryffindor would somehow be rude, impulsive, somewhat stupid, reckless and bigoted. Thomas had introduced Sherlock to a fair number of people who had inhabited all four of the Hogwarts houses, and so he knew quite a few Gryffindors who were intelligent, thoughtful, generally honorable people who were still quite capable of healthy self-interest and the ability to see a person's clay feet – even if they are hidden beneath blinding robes and a slightly-psychotic twinkle.

Eventually, Harris Potter had removed himself from his family. On his seventeenth birthday, during the over-publicized and overblown coming-of-age party that the Potters and Dumbledore used to advertise their 'Chosen One's' new status as an adult hero, Harris Potter had demonstrated his true cunning. First, he accepted, carefully reviewed (much to the irritation of his father) and signed the legal documents presented by the Potter Family Solicitors. Those documents turned over to the young man full ownership of his share of the Potter fortune. As soon as the documents were signed and given to the Gringott's goblin Harris had personally selected to manage his own accounts (which turned out to be something of an unpleasant shock to the senior Potters and a disgruntled Dumbledore), Harris Potter had publically declared himself to be permanently, formally and legally estranged from James and Lily Potter and all of the members of the Order of the Phoenix. He had specifically identified Albus Dumbledore as a person with whom he would have no further interaction of any sort. He had then nodded respectfully to Professor Filius Flitwick and his goblin brethren, severed the magical tethers and tracking charms that Dumbledore and James were certain he knew nothing about, and vanished from the public eye.

Over the next few weeks, James Potter and Albus Dumbledore had both attempted to smooth the situation over with the public, offering quotes to reporters in which they laughingly commented on Harris's 'little rebellious phase' and 'prankish nature'. Lily Potter had made impassioned pleas to her son to return home to his 'loving family' and declared to any who would listen that she was certain Harris had somehow been placed under compulsion charms by 'the enemies of the Light'.

They had quickly changed their tune when each was served with lawsuits by Harris's private solicitor for using the young man's name and image without permission, and for speaking on his behalf and in his name despite his status as an independent adult wizard.

Sherlock smirked as he recalled that Harris had won those lawsuits, and all other legal and financial challenges, without ever appearing in public again. He had issued a single statement to the wizarding world, declaring his intention to 'sink into obscurity and enjoy the privacy that he had been denied'. And he had done exactly that. He had removed himself from the public eye at age seventeen. He was now twenty-nine years old, having hidden from everyone for over twelve years.

Until moon dark, two nights ago, and the scrying ritual Thomas and Sherlock had finally been able to conduct after spending nearly a decade preparing. Anyone who believed that locating a soul mate was just a matter of a simple potion or spell probably worked for Dumbledore. In truth, this night was the culmination of years upon years of exacting research, excruciatingly detailed calculations of arithmancy and runic translation, and painful, careful planning.

But now, here they were, he and Thomas. Leaning against a beautiful, stone wall that stretched for miles and miles across green fields, staring at the cottage in which their mysterious third mate had isolated himself after retreating from public life. They knew, now, that Harris had used his affinity for nature to create remarkable gardens and greenhouses in which he grew rare plants and flowers that served a primary purpose decorating manors and grounds such as those owned by Lucius Malfoy, and sometimes filling private orders from renowned potions masters, based entirely on the whims of Harris Potter. As Potions Masters Snape had cause to attest, if Harris Potter had any reason to hold a grudge against someone, he refused all orders by that person. Somehow, he also knew if someone else was used as a 'beard' for the blacklisted person, and refused those orders, too. Lucius himself had recently lost favor with Harris Potter and was no longer allowed to order any of his extraordinary plants or potent herbs, having attempted to place an order in his own name for longtime friend Severus Snape.

It seemed that Harris had a particular dislike for the sarcastic potioneer. The embarrassed Lucius had mumbled something about Snape and Lily Potter, a leftover grudge against Potter senior, and a virulent seven years as Harris's potions professor. In light of what they now knew about Harris as their third mate, both Sherlock and Thomas had a sudden urge to torture the man who had apparently felt entirely justified in using his own failure to grow up as adequate reason for terrorizing a young boy. The man had reputedly been irate that Harris Potter had dared to hold a grudge against him.

Despite their vehement approval of their mate's actions, Thomas and Sherlock were admittedly worried about the information, as well. If Harris held an ongoing dislike for people like Snape, what would the young man feel about Thomas Voldemort, who was – in a sense – the reason Harris's childhood had been so miserable? Even though Thomas had ever acted on the prophecy, and had indeed done his best to dismiss the whole, damn thing and to rebuke the Potters for their treatment of their son, it was nevertheless true that Thomas's very existence had fuelled the vendetta by Dumbledore and the Potters. Without Thomas, Harris may well have had a normal life.

Possibly.

Thomas and Sherlock straightened abruptly, their close surveillance narrowing into keen attention as the main door of the charming little cottage suddenly opened and a small, lithe figure emerged and moved with familiar ease down the stone pathway toward the heart of the garden. Thomas's arm, which was wrapped around Sherlock's waist, tightened as the two drew deep, calming breaths and stared hungrily at the swift, graceful young man.

Finally, the devoted mate-pair were able to look upon their third with their own astonished, appreciative eyes.

Morgana, he was exquisite!

ooooooooooooooooooo

**A/N2:** Hang in there, folks. I'm posting the next chapter within 24 hours (bet on it – well, barring power outages and FFN rebellion), and it includes ogling, touching, kissing, licking and all of the stuff that fuels our rude little flamer's supposed nightmares (known to the rest of the world as a wet dream).

Blessed Be!

WyrdSmith

ooooooooooooooooooo

**ooooooooooooooooooo**

**A/N2**:

Thank you. Blessed Be.

WyrdSmith


	3. What Dreams

**A/N:** Okay, I missed the midnight deadline, but still got it posted within 30 hours from prior chapter. That's not bad, right?

**Updated A/N:** Thanks to **Mystical Marauder**, for pointing out my Harris/Hadrian mental bombarda. Damn, it is HARD to keep all the names I use for Harry straight! And don't get me started on Voldemort!

**WARNINGS:** All slash, all the time. Lemony, with a hint of sugar and a surprisingly acidic bite.

ooooooooooooooooooo

**From Chapter 2**

Thomas and Sherlock straightened abruptly, their close surveillance narrowing into keen attention as the main door of the charming little cottage suddenly opened and a small, lithe figure emerged and moved with familiar ease down the stone pathway toward the heart of the garden. Thomas's arm, which was wrapped around Sherlock's waist, tightened as the two drew deep, calming breaths and stared hungrily at the swift, graceful young man.

Finally, the devoted mate-pair were able to look upon their third with their own astonished, appreciative eyes.

Morgana, he was exquisite!

oooooooooooooooooooo

**CHAPTER 3: **SEEING THE UNSEEN

Harris Potter was a very smart young man. At age six, he realized with a regrettable lack of surprise that he was already more intelligent than his own father. As he grew, he realized that he also had a few very special abilities, most of which he kept private. It was impossible to conceal his facility with the living world, of course. His gardening business, in fact, had emerged from his joy in working with that which grows from and returns to Gaia. He had befriended his first garden when he was all of four years old, and had rarely gone more than a day or two since without having his fingers deep in rich loam and glorious soil. He viewed himself as a creature of Gaia, and a child of Maia. He was born of earth and born to magic. And he had gifts and abilities from both of the Sisters.

One of those abilities was singing within him right now. He had gone to bed last night expecting to awaken with the same sense of nearly unbearable anticipation that had plagued him for weeks now. Instead, all of his senses had seemed to suddenly still, as if a roaring maelstrom had silenced itself, and his entire being rang with the knowledge that whatever had been building was now complete. Whatever he had been expecting to arrive was here.

Somewhere.

Despite this, Harris went about his routine with very little deviation. He saw no need for it. His life was not suddenly going to change just because a nebulous 'something' had somehow reached a conclusion that he could not point to or quantify or even name. And none of the unfamiliar emotions he was experiencing would change the fact that the moonstone flowers needed a touch of his magic today, or that the new hybrids he had created would be budding sometime this week, or that he wanted to inspect the charms and protections he had placed on his gardens and greenhouses to ensure they were all in order and would continue to maintain their charges regardless of his presence. True, he had obsessively confirmed that last detail over the past several days, somehow certain that his attention would soon be diverted from his daily life and he wanted to ensure that the home he had created here would continue to nurture and shelter and succor the minor children of Gaia should he be absent.

And so, he had dressed in his normal working clothes, which consisted of simple, khaki trousers and a heavy, knitted pullover with long sleeves and leather patches on the elbows and shoulders. He had pulled on his work robe, which was actually more like a sleeveless vest that extended mid-thigh and contained numerous pockets charmed to be weightless and somewhat bottomless. He tapped his thigh twice and nodded in satisfaction at the silent pops of sensation that confirmed his magic was channeling properly through the miniscule gemstones he had magically implanted in his chakras, a self-designed creation and procedure of which he was particularly proud, and headed out the door into his garden.

He was halfway across the yard when he sensed them.

Pausing casually at the multi-tiered stone pond & fountain he had designed and created to support some of the creatures of air and water that blessed his garden, he ran a hand assessingly over the cool, damp stone and asked the twin elements of Earth and Water to tell him what he wanted to know. He whistled engagingly back at a chipper little nargle that perched on the upper rim of the fountain, admiring its bright colors as he listened to its tale. He had rescued this one several years ago from the aura of Severus Snape, so it was especially happy to be here.

And then he straightened and turned, to stare directly at the spot where two men – perfectly concealed by invisibility charms - leaned tensely against Harris's low stone wall. Ignoring their shock, he smiled threateningly at them and said with admirable composure, "Perhaps you can explain why you are invading my privacy and why I shouldn't allow my guardians to pull you down into your own graves. You two would probably make wonderful fertilizer for some of my more … bloodthirsty … plants."

Somehow, he wasn't expecting the two men to nod so approvingly at his words. He also wasn't expecting his pet Devil's Snare and Demon Vines to release their grip on the feet and legs of the men and return to the soil as if they had greeted long-lost friends. He wasn't expecting the nargle, normally a vicious defender of his territory, to emit a charming song of sheer happiness at the sight of the two men.

And he definitely wasn't expecting his own magic to purr when they smiled.

oooooooooooooooooooo

**COME DAY, GO DAY**

Returning to their Manor without their Third was easily one of the most difficult things either Thomas or Sherlock had ever done. Thomas, while irritated and tense, was somewhat philosophical about it. Harris had not refused them, after all; he had simply sent them away with the promise that he would think about everything they had told him and would contact them in a few days.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was furious.

"How could you do that, Thomas? What kind of Dark Lord walks away from something he wants like a child told 'no' by his mumsy? Why did you let him get away with that? DAMN it, Thomas, why did you stop me?" Sherlock railed, pacing around the room with manic energy.

Thomas leaned against their desk and watched his mate practically vibrating with rage and confusion, moving through the room like a caged lion. Sherlock was brilliant, incredibly insightful when something interested him, capable of immense leaps of logic and intuition that bordered on being supernatural. But right now, Sherlock was confused, upset … and devastated.

On his next, furious pass near the desk, Thomas reached out and caught Sherlock's arm, easily dodging the man's immediate reaction in the form of a flying fist and pulled the raging detective flush to his stronger body with implacable ease. He allowed Sherlock to struggle and flail for several moments, knowing full well that the man wasn't trying to harm Thomas or to get away, so much as he was desperate to purge emotions he did not understand and could not control. Despite Sherlock's impressive mind-palace and undeniable self-control, he was without magic and therefore much more vulnerable to the turbulent whirl of emotions that surfaced in them both at the close proximity to Harris Potter.

Eventually tiring himself out against the immovable object that was his beloved mate, Sherlock collapsed against Thomas's chest and allowed himself to be comforted. A choked sob emerging from the handsome face buried his chest caused Thomas to tighten his arms around Sherlock and drop his cheek to press atop the soft, brunette curls that adorned the singularly brilliant mind that was currently whirling uncontrollably, seeking a logical conclusion that was just not there.

"He didn't reject us, little genius," Thomas murmured soothingly. "He didn't tell us to go away. He told us he needed privacy." He paused there, and waited, knowing that Sherlock would handle all of this better if his own deductions led him to the truth.

Pressed tightly against Thomas's firm chest, strong arms wrapped around him, Sherlock let his personal Dark Lord comfort him as he processed the words that rumbled against his ear. Now that he had 'vented', as LeStrade used to say, he was better able to consider the facts. Despite the painful ache in his chest, a fact which finally allowed Sherlock to understand why people believed that emotion came from their hearts rather than their minds or spirits, Sherlock realized that Thomas spoke the truth. Harris had _not_ rejected them, not outright, anyway. He had allowed them to explain, albeit from a safe distance that prevented any possibility of the two touching him. He had allowed them into the outer ward, based on the behavior of his horticultural guardians, and so they had been able to sit on a bench that seemed to have grown from the living root of a simply enormous tree that shaded the yard. Harris had seated himself almost eight feet away, on a boulder that was perfectly formed to comfortably support a person, and watched the two men warily as they introduced themselves more fully and explained about the Pact of New Blood.

His reaction had been to quirk an incredulous eyebrow and comment dryly, "I knew it was going to be big, but I certainly didn't expect _this_!" His brilliant, emerald eyes had sparkled with interest and his, ebony hair had rippled gently in the morning breeze. He looked otherworldly, and at the same time completely a part of the lush gardens he had created.

He had also appeared unsurprised at the knowledge that he was a descendant of Morgan le Fey, and had finally smiled at them when Thomas had commented on that fact. Both Thomas and Sherlock had been intrigued when they learned that Harris was a descendant of le Fey but that no one else in Harris's family seemed to share that blood connection. It was not logical, considering that even the goblins confirmed that Harris was the child of James Potter and Lily Evans, a fact that the newspapers of the time reported on the third-month naming day. That particular tradition had interested Sherlock, who had found it fascinating to learn that wizards did not officially name a child as theirs until they confirmed, through regular checks during the first three months of life, that the child was not a squib. There were no naming days held for squibs; not in the wizarding world.

There were, however, the occasional, unmentioned trips to muggle orphanages, invariably followed by long, recuperative vacations by magical parents who had "lost a child".

Harris had taken a sip of the ice water he had poured for himself in lieu of the tea that the other two had accepted, and Sherlock remembered watching in aroused fascination as the beautiful young man's throat moved and a pink tongue briefly emerged to lick away residual moisture from the glass. He had been so caught up in sheer _observation_ that he had been momentarily confused when Harris began talking, a fact that Thomas did not miss, if the gentle smirk he sent at Sherlock was any indication.

"James and Lily blood adopted me when I was two months old," Harris explained with a notable lack of emotion. "I was actually born to Lily's cousin, who was also adopted into the family by Lily's uncle. My mother's parentage is unknown, she was found at a camp site in the Midwestern United States. The story goes that she was found in a bunch of sweet grass that had grown into the form of a nest, and there was evidence that she had been fed milk, but no people were anywhere around. Lots of wildlife nearby, though, including a family of cougars and a pack of wolves, all of which had nursing mothers that could possibly have fed her. Of course, those are just from the notes I found in grandmother's journal when I researched some of my magical abilities; it's not like any of the Potters would ever admit to such 'unnaturalness' existing in their family," he commented wryly. To the closely-observing men, it was evident that Harris held a fair amount of emotional pain, disguised as witty contempt.

Taking another long drink, Harris studied his glass a moment before elaborating. "My birth mother was adopted by Aidan and Bernadette Evans, and named Genevieve. She found herself with child out of wedlock, refused to name the father, and died giving birth to me almost thirty years ago. My grandfather Aidan was willing to raise me on his own, absolutely refusing to cooperate when James and Lily tried to insist that I go live with her sister Petunia. I guess James' father Charlus finally convinced James and Lily to adopt me by telling them what he found after assessing my power levels. All it took then was for Dumbledore to hear about it, and suddenly, I was a Potter instead of an Evans. Lucky, lucky me," he ended with heavy irony.

Thomas had been amazed at the recitation, having never heard even a whisper that Harris was not the natural-born child of Lily and James. He was considerably impressed by the efficacy with which the powerful and wealthy Potter Patriarch and, undoubtedly, Dumbledore, had concealed the truth of Harris's birth. He was so caught up in that analysis, in fact, that he missed the more shocking point. Sherlock, however, did not.

"That damnable prophecy never actually applied to you at all!" Sherlock exclaimed. He was aghast, not so much at the fact that Dumbledore and the Potters had lied about the whole thing, but at the horrifying knowledge that Harris might have been murdered by his own blood-and-magic destined mate Thomas, had the Dark Lord been any less canny than he was. If Thomas had been the type to attack at the first hint of threat, he and Harris would been plunged into a nightmarish reality.

Thomas and Sherlock sat there, deeply shaken, and Harris watched as the two men comforted each other and struggled with their own abortive efforts to reach out and seize him. Sherlock seemed particularly intent on getting up and going to Harris, glaring at Thomas when the older man held him back. It was good that he did so, because Harris would have ejected him from the wards immediately.

He had intentionally kept a solid ward up between them and him, refusing to allow himself to be vulnerable beyond that which was unavoidable. Harris had deeply-ingrained life lessons about what happened to him if he allowed anyone too close. His own mother, albeit adopted, had provided ample reason for him to keep his guard up. Lily Potter was not the most stable witch around; in fact, of the two sisters, Harris felt he might have actually been better off living with the pinch-faced Petunia and her blustery husband. In truth, Harris kind of liked Uncle Vernon, having found something of common ground with the man in their mutual dislike of James Potter and his invasive mentor, Dumbledore.

Besides, Harris's efforts in the single day he had spent in their company had resulted in the Dursleys having an award-winning garden that year. That alone had won their approval – at least for him. Harris enjoyed the fact that they did not like Lily and James and had no qualms about saying so.

Feeling himself yearning to reach across the wards and let these two men pull him close, Harris abruptly stood and told them that he had work to do. He had steeled himself against the devastated look in the younger man's blue-gray eyes, and had said quietly to the older, more self-contained, wizard, "I do my best thinking alone in my garden. I need a bit of privacy, if you don't mind. " He had added with a need to reassure the two would-be mates, especially Sherlock, "I'll contact you in a few days, after I've had time to think."

And although he refused to apologize for his decision, Harris knew that his expression – despite his best efforts – held a plea for understanding, for acceptance, that he would normally never allow another person to see. These men, these two beautiful men, wanted him. They said that magic herself had chosen them to be mates. Harris could feel that they spoke the truth, could feel the pull of the bond that reached urgently between them like arms extended to each other. He just needed time to think.

He had to remind himself of that fact very sternly, when the two men reluctantly apparated out, Thomas's arms wrapped comfortingly around Sherlock as they watched Harris and the cottage fade from their sight. They were nearly grieving as they departed from the mate they had sought for over ten years.

Of course, they might have been reassured if they'd known that Harris collapsed to the ground, sobbing in loss, mere seconds after he felt them leave his wards.

oooooooooooooooooooo

**WHAT DREAMS MAY … CUM?**

Later that night, Harris paced barefoot through the dewy grasses around his home, chilled and lonely and yearning for Sherlock and Thomas, before finally returning indoors to seek the dissatisfying comfort of his overstuffed couch and the low fire in the hearth. As he reclined on the couch and stared into the flames, mentally settling into that slightly-dazed mental state that happens to most people as they study fire or water, Harris suddenly felt the distinct presence of Thomas and Sherlock in the room.

Shocked, he looked around and checked the wards and realized that, no, he was still alone in his home. But his … mates? … were definitely there. Nearby.

A warm breath whispered against the bare skin of his neck, and Harris drew a sharp breath of surprise when he heard Thomas's dark chocolate baritone murmur in his mind, "You have been alone long enough, little one." A warm, strong chest pressed against his back, powerful arms wrapping around him as another, strong body crept up his legs and settled astride his hips, long, elegant fingers tracing his face and trailing down his chest.

Harris gasped in confused arousal as Thomas, who _was not there_,… was he?... began to nibble and nuzzle against his neck and throat, pulling Harris back to recline against the muscular body of his older mate. Harris could feel everything, including the shockingly large erection pressing hard against his buttocks as strong hands held his hips steady.

Above him, Sherlock, his barely visible, transparent form feeling incredibly solid and real as he straddled Harris's hips and rocked against his smaller mate, trailed an invisible hand down Harris's chest and unfastened the buttons of his pajama top. Pulling the garment open, Sherlock leaned down and pressed warm, naked skin against the exposed chest of his mate, sensuous mouth settling just barely on Harris's open mouth, breathing with him as the small, bewildered wizard's wide eyes searched for visible evidence of the tangible proof pressing into him, front and back.

Sherlock whispered against Harris's gasping mouth, "We found you, little love. We've got you now. You will never be lonely again. Trust us, beloved. Trust us." Sensuous lips settled firmly over Harris's mouth, deepening the pressure into a delicious, toe-curling kiss that shook Harris to the core. He could no more prevent his own body hardening in response to the dual assault on his senses than he could silence the whimpering moan he emitted when Sherlock's tongue swept into his mouth at the same moment as Thomas, licking and suckling on his jawline, sent warm, oiled fingers beneath the back of Harris's pajama bottoms and slid between his buttocks to tease and caress his most private place.

Slowly, shyly, Harris began to move against the lovers that were there, but not. His tongue slid tentatively along Sherlock's, who rewarded him immediately with a needy moan as long, experienced fingers began to caress and tease Harris's nipples into pebbled points of sensation. Harris threw his head back and gasped when Sherlock's hands journeyed lower, grasping the younger man's waistband and pulling his pajama bottoms down, assisted by Thomas. Bared to the chill air of the room, Harris's skin felt incredibly alive as his transparent lovers sandwiched him between them and overwhelmed him with the touch of heated, naked skin; strong, sleek muscles; and impossibly hard, silken erections.

Thomas's oiled fingers returned to tease and torment Harris's twitching rosebud, finally dipping in to the heated center and slowly, sensually caressing his smallest lover's molten depths. Curling his finger just so, he unerringly found and delicately stroked the nub of nerves hidden in Harris's body, delighting in the young wizard's involuntary thrust back as Harris impaled himself further.

Sherlock, with impeccable timing, wrapped his long fingers around his and Harris's cocks, fisting them loosely in a slow, steady rhythm that gradually increased in speed and strength as the three men moved together toward ecstasy. Thomas slid his cock between Harris's buttocks, stroking it with his own thumb even as he kept his fingers buried in Harris's depths. His other hand reached around and pulled Sherlock down hard, pressing the three lovers tightly together as they bucked and gasped.

Thomas's face was tucked against Harris's neck, frantically kissing his mate's silken skin as he resisted the urge to bite a claiming mark on the young man's shoulder. Above them, Sherlock was employing all of his formidable skill at kissing to overwhelm their newest mate in pure sensation, and his hips pistoned even as he stroked his and Harris's cocks with somewhat frantic need. Harris, completely lost to the intensity of the moment, moaned in unrestrained pleasure and gripped Sherlock's hair, holding tight and kissing back with growing confidence even as his other arm reached up and back, clinging to Thomas's head and relishing the older man's gasping moans as they rumbled against Harris's neck and shoulder.

The long fingers deep within him somehow stroked even deeper, curled and caressing Harris's prostate in a final, devastating attack that sent the overwhelmed young man into rigid spasms, body grasping at Thomas and pulling the older wizard with him into orgasm as the hot jets of cum that pulsed over Sherlock's hand and cock sent him, too, into nirvana.

Frozen in a timeless moment of ecstasy, the three mates clung together as the bond between them pulsed with them before settling into a strong, steady glow of power.

Breath coming in gasping sobs, Harris felt his mates pressing gentle kisses against his forehead and cheeks and jaw, Sherlock descending like a transparent god to seize the young man's mouth in his own, before surrendering the sweet depths to the attention of his older mate. Thomas turned Harris's head to the side and claimed his youngest mate's mouth for the first time, establishing pure ownership as his tongue swept in and claimed the succulent territory for himself and his mate.

Sherlock met Harris's sleepy gaze with his own, transparent stare and said in his distinctive, deep tone, "Tomorrow, little one. We have waited long enough." He held the green eyes firmly, his message unequivocal, and sent warm approval down the bond at the young man's agreement. The brilliant man understood his younger mate's need to think and understand what was happening, but knew better than most how vital it was for Harris to feel for himself the complete love and acceptance that he and Thomas would give him.

Thomas stroked a strong, warm hand soothingly down Harris's flat stomach and placed a final, gentle kiss on the tempting mouth of his newest mate. With his mouth near the delicate, almost elven ear that peaked out from the raven locks, Thomas growled softly, "Sleep and rest, little love. Trust us. You are not alone anymore." As he and Sherlock slowed faded from the room, his last act for the night was to summon a warm blanket which the two mates draped over their beloved.

Drifting off to sleep, sated and somewhat bewildered, Harris hugged to himself the comfort that flowed through and around him from the newly-settled bond and allowed himself, cautiously, to hope that the happiness he was beginning to feel was real.

ooooooooooooooooooo

In the huge bed at Slytherin Manor, the two figures wrapped around each other slowly opened their eyes as Thomas masterfully brought them back from their legilimentic journey. Sherlock stared, enraptured, into the swirling ruby depths of his lover's eyes and offered a slow, sleepy smile. Thomas raised a strong hand to cup the side of Sherlock's face, thumb stroking the sharp cheekbone as he smiled back. Together, they studied the condition of their mating bond and saw with deep contentment that the bond now contained their delightful Third.

Soon, very soon, their bed would, as well.

ooooooooooooooooooo

**A/N2**: MIDNIGHT EMBER! YOOO-HOOOOO! This is officially a nag-note. I want so badly to see a chapter in "Cloudier Sky" when Marvolo & Silas are continuing their courtship. Please? I know I'm pressuring you, but also bribing. Shall I bring the mighty weight of our shared readers to bear? Lol!


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