# 12 Grimmauld Place – Drawing Room – 11:18 PM
The drawing room at Grimmauld Place had undergone what could charitably be called a personality transplant. The bones were still there—centuries of pure-blood posturing embedded in grand old woodwork, the faint metallic tang of old Dark Magic lingering like dust that had witnessed too many family meetings that ended in Unforgivables. But someone—several someones, actually—had draped it in warmth. Family photographs instead of ancestral sneers. Cushions that invited sitting rather than plotting. Lighting that whispered *home* instead of screaming *ritual sacrifice*.
Harry Potter sat curled in an armchair that was frankly too big for him, legs tucked up like a cat settling in for a proper sulk. The chair could have comfortably seated two adults, which made him look like a small monarch awaiting some unfortunate courtier to displease him. Hot chocolate steamed faintly in his hands, forgotten—he wasn't drinking it so much as using it as a prop in some internal drama. His green eyes were locked on the fireplace, narrowed and distant in the way of someone who knew he was meant to be ten but had just been handed a problem that most adults would pawn off on theology.
Around him, the room had settled into formation with the practiced ease of a family that had learned to circle the wagons. Sirius sprawled on the sofa in the exact posture of a wolf pretending he wasn't keeping guard—all deceptive laziness and coiled threat, dark hair falling into eyes that missed nothing. One arm draped casually along the back cushions, the other resting on his knee, but every line of his body radiated *mine to protect*. Amelia sat beside him, a study in contained authority, her red hair catching the firelight like burnished copper. She radiated the sort of calm competence that could run Parliament if she chose, perched exactly one arched eyebrow away from taking over the world through sheer organizational brilliance.
Susan had claimed the chair nearest Harry, all ginger curls and fierce protectiveness, close enough to touch but trying very hard not to smother. Her hands kept twitching toward him before she caught herself—the eternal struggle of wanting to wrap someone in cotton wool while respecting their stubborn independence. Andromeda occupied the window seat, healer's robes still crisp despite hours of wear, her dark hair swept back in that effortlessly elegant way that spoke of aristocratic breeding and battlefield composure. She exuded that particular blend of grace and steel that said she could perform surgery in a war zone and emerge with every hair in place.
The front door crashed open with the subtlety of a natural disaster.
Sherlock Holmes stormed in like a hurricane wearing cheekbones, his voice already halfway down the corridor and accelerating toward full dramatic velocity.
"Right! What's the emergency? I've abandoned a quadruple murder investigation that was just getting interesting, ruined a perfectly decent coat by spelunking in what I can only hope was merely a dumpster, and annoyed Scotland Yard to the point where they may actually remember I don't work for them and try to do something about it. This had better be spectacularly good."
He swept into the room with theatrical disdain, one coat sleeve suspiciously slimed, hair a masterpiece of intellectual suffering, and—because the universe clearly had a sense of humor—dragging a bright pink suitcase behind him like it had personally offended his ancestors.
"Why," Sirius asked with the flat delivery of a man confronting the inexplicable, "is that pink?"
"It's a color," Sherlock snapped, setting the suitcase down with disdainful care. "Try not to be frightened by it. Some of us don't have the luxury of emotional attachment to arbitrary wavelengths of light."
He surveyed the room with the calculating precision of a hawk sizing up a field of particularly interesting mice. The assessment was instant and comprehensive: Harry in defensive curl, adults arranged in protective formation, Andromeda's medical bag within easy reach, the peculiar atmosphere of crisis disguised as family gathering, the weight of unspoken revelations hanging in the air like incense.
"Medical consultation," Sherlock deduced, pale eyes narrowing to laser focus. "Not St. Mungo's—you'd still be there if it required institutional care. Emergency resolved but ongoing. Ergo: condition manageable in the short term but serious in the long. Harry's at the center of it—obvious from the protective positioning. Everyone's poised as though expecting either detonation or revelation. Emotional triage required more than medical intervention."
He flowed into a crouch before Harry with the fluid grace of a predator, reducing his towering intellect to boy-sized eye level. His voice, when it came, was quieter, softer, carrying the sort of gentleness that Sherlock Holmes reserved for the genuinely vulnerable and absolutely no one else.
"Harry. What is it? What have they found?"
Harry looked up, green eyes sharp and steady, carrying the sort of weight that suggested he'd already done the math on his situation and reached conclusions that would make grown men weep. The kind of look that would one day cow politicians and Dark Lords alike, though at the moment it was being deployed with surgical precision on a detective having an emotional moment.
"I can talk to snakes," he said, with barely a pause before adding with devastating casualness, "And apparently I've been sharing brain space with Voldemort's soul since I was a baby. Rent-free. Honestly, he's the worst tenant I've ever had. Doesn't even contribute to utilities."
Silence descended like a curtain.
The fire crackled with all the dramatic timing of a theater prompt, filling the void where rational thought used to live.
Sherlock's face performed a fascinating kaleidoscope of responses—shock, horror, fascination, something approaching homicidal protectiveness, and what might have been professional admiration for Harry's delivery—before settling into the razor-sharp clarity that meant his brain had shifted into overdrive.
"Parseltongue," he murmured, the word rolling off his tongue like he was tasting it for poison. "Historically Slytherin, bloodline-specific magical inheritance, yet your genealogy is Potter through and through—I've seen the family trees, they're depressingly conventional. Which leaves only external contamination. Foreign magical resonance."
"Diagnostic confirmed," Andromeda cut in with clinical precision, her aristocratic vowels turning medical terminology into poetry. "A parasitic fragment of soul, latched onto his magical core like some sort of spiritual barnacle. It's been siphoning energy since infancy, though thankfully Harry's natural magical development has been robust enough to compensate."
"Horcrux." The word fell from Sherlock's lips like a death knell, heavy with implications that made the room's shadows seem to deepen. He rose, coat flaring as he began to pace with the restless energy of a caged panther. "Not intentional—couldn't be. Accidental creation during the failed murder attempt. The Killing Curse rebounds, Voldemort's corporeal form obliterated, yet a fragment of his fractured soul survives, anchoring itself to the nearest viable magical vessel." His voice accelerated into that machine-gun precision that meant he was thinking faster than most people could breathe. "You, Harry. A fifteen-month-old child with the magical signature of a hurricane and the survival instincts of something considerably more dangerous."
"Oh, brilliant," Harry muttered, settling deeper into his armchair with the air of someone who'd been handed a particularly unwelcome inheritance. "So I'm basically an antique teapot. Collectible. Full of evil. Probably worth more at auction than I'd like to think about."
"Not a teapot," Sherlock said absently, still pacing with mathematical precision, "more like—"
"If you compare me to a laboratory sample jar, I swear on Merlin's pointy hat I'll hex you into next Tuesday."
"—an arcane vessel of unprecedented sophistication." Sherlock ignored the threat with the practiced ease of someone who'd been threatened by experts. "The scar's the point of entry, yes? Physical manifestation of the magical tether. Which explains his peculiar resilience, the inexplicable survival rate, the preternaturally rapid magical development, and the additional... talents."
"Like Parseltongue," Harry supplied, his tone edged with the sort of acid humor that could strip paint. "Marvelous perk, that. Could've been flight or invisibility or the ability to turn homework into chocolate. No. I get the capacity to hold riveting conversations with snakes. Absolutely fantastic for zoo trips and making friends at school."
"Don't," Susan interjected sharply, her green eyes flashing with protective fury. "Don't you dare make jokes about this, Harry Potter. This is serious."
"Why not?" Harry shot back, straightening in his chair like a bantam rooster squaring up to a hawk. "What exactly would you prefer, Susan? Should I sit here trembling like a leaf in a thunderstorm? Cry dramatically into the cushions while wailing about my tragic fate? Break down sobbing about the unfairness of it all?" His voice rose with theatrical indignation. "I'm sorry, but if my choices are soul-parasite possession or maintaining my sense of humor, I'll take the snark. At least it's entertaining."
Sirius gave him a grin that was far too wolfish for polite company, pride radiating from every pore. "That's my godson. Never met a crisis he couldn't sass his way through."
Amelia elbowed him without looking up from her notes, her voice carrying the sort of fond exasperation that came from years of managing impossible men. "Stop encouraging him, Sirius. He's insufferable enough without positive reinforcement."
"He doesn't need encouraging," Andromeda observed with the dry precision of someone who'd watched the Black family in action for decades. "Sarcasm appears to be his dominant coping mechanism. Probably hereditary—it certainly runs in this particular gene pool."
Harry smirked into his hot chocolate, raising the mug in a mock toast. "See? She gets it. Finally, someone who appreciates my artistic approach to existential crisis management."
Sherlock stopped pacing, pinning Harry with one of his laser-beam stares that could reduce grown criminals to confession. When he spoke, his voice carried absolute certainty wrapped in fierce protectiveness.
"This does not change who you are, Harry. You've carried this fragment for ten years without becoming him, without yielding to its influence, without compromising your essential self. That's not accident or luck—it's proof. Empirical evidence that your character, your choices, your fundamental nature are stronger than his corruption."
Harry tilted his head, a sly glint creeping into his eyes like sunlight through stained glass. "So what you're saying is that not only am I Harry Potter, but I'm also winning a decade-long staring contest with Voldemort's soul fragment. Tell me again how he's supposed to be this terrifyingly powerful Dark Lord?"
Sherlock's lips twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smile. "Oh, he's terrifying. Absolutely, categorically, murderous terrifying. Just not to you."
The front door opened again—not slammed like Sherlock's usual dramatic entrance, but pushed with the sort of deliberate authority that announced itself without ever needing to raise its voice. The kind of entrance that whispered rather than shouted, but somehow commanded twice as much attention.
Mycroft Holmes's voice preceded him into the hallway, carrying that perfect balance of weary patience and omniscient smugness that suggested he'd been managing impossible situations since before breakfast.
"—a completely unprecedented magical condition requiring both immediate assessment and long-term strategic planning. Fair warning, Dr. Watson—most medical schools don't cover 'soul fragments' in the standard curriculum. I trust you'll find the experience... educational."
Every head in the drawing room turned as Mycroft glided into view, perfectly pressed despite the late hour, umbrella in hand like a scepter of bureaucratic dominion. His suit was immaculate, his hair precisely arranged, his expression carrying that particular blend of omniscience and mild disappointment that suggested he'd already calculated seventeen different outcomes for this evening and found most of them tedious.
Beside him stood John Watson, whose expression suggested he'd just been drop-kicked through the looking glass, ricocheted off every piece of furniture in Wonderland, landed in a pile of nonsense, and was trying very hard to remain polite about the entire experience. His jumper was slightly rumpled, his hair mussed, and he carried himself with the careful precision of someone who suspected reality had taken a holiday and left him holding the bill.
Sherlock's eyes snapped to John with visible surprise—genuine surprise, which from Sherlock Holmes was rarer than hen's teeth and twice as valuable. The surprise folded, with visible effort, into something that might have been pleasure if Sherlock had allowed himself such pedestrian emotions.
"John." His voice carried the sort of warmth usually reserved for favorite experiments that had yielded particularly interesting results. "I left you at the crime scene with Lestrade and Anderson, whose combined incompetence is surely contagious by now and may actually be spreading to nearby wildlife. And yet, here you are. How exactly did you end up kidnapped by my brother?"
"Recruited," John corrected with the flat delivery of someone who'd been through too much weirdness to maintain proper outrage, though his voice carried that dry soldier's irritation he reserved specifically for madmen and government officials. "Over dinner at Angelo's, if you can believe it. He introduced himself as—well, as him—just before proceeding to tell me about magical parasites and evil wizards while I was trying to eat pasta. And now apparently I'm here for... moral support? Medical consultation? Possibly an exorcism?" He gestured helplessly around the room. "I'm honestly not sure anymore."
"Ah," Sherlock said, his smirk expanding into something approaching genuine amusement. "So Mycroft performed one of his little character assessments while simultaneously micromanaging my family crisis. Pathetic, really, how utterly predictable he's become in his old age."
"Predictable?" Mycroft repeated with silky smoothness, gliding further into the room with the unhurried grace of someone who owned every space he entered. His pale gaze swept across the gathering like a general surveying a battlefield—lingering on Andromeda's medical bag, Sirius's overprotective sprawl, Susan's fierce proximity to Harry, Amelia's calculating serenity, the careful positioning that spoke of crisis management and damage control. "I prefer the term 'efficient,' Sherlock. You might try it someday. Though I suppose efficiency requires forward planning, which has never been your particular forte."
"I'll stick to being brilliant," Sherlock fired back with the casual arrogance of someone who'd never doubted his own intellectual superiority. "It's worked out rather well so far."
"Brilliant and catastrophically reckless," Mycroft murmured, settling his umbrella with precise care. "A combination that has provided me with more gray hairs than I care to count and enough paperwork to deforest small nations."
Sirius barked out a laugh that belonged more in a wolf pack than a drawing room, sprawling further across the sofa with deliberate insolence. "God almighty, it's like watching a tennis match between terminal smugness and weaponized sarcasm. Do you two ever have normal conversations, or is everything a battle for intellectual superiority?"
Amelia's hand landed on his knee with the precision of someone who'd had practice managing impossible men. "Behave yourself, Sirius. We have guests."
"Why start now?" Sirius grinned, unrepentant. "Besides, they're Holmes. I'm pretty sure normal behavior would actually offend them."
Throughout this exchange, Harry hadn't moved from his armchair throne, still cradling his cooling hot chocolate like a king nursing wine while contemplating the peasants' revolt. When Mycroft finally turned that glacier-pale scrutiny on him, Harry lifted his gaze with the sort of exaggerated weariness that suggested he'd been dealing with dramatic adults all evening and found them wanting.
"Harry," Mycroft said with the gentle precision of someone negotiating a delicate treaty, positioning himself with the careful deliberation of a diplomat approaching a potentially volatile situation. "I understand you've had some... revelations this evening. Concerning revelations, one might say. How are you managing this new information about your rather unique medical circumstances?"
Harry took a long, deliberately slow sip of his hot chocolate, green eyes glittering with the sort of mischief that suggested he was about to deploy maximum sass against unsuspecting targets.
"Oh, absolutely splendidly," he drawled with the sort of theatrical enthusiasm usually reserved for school plays and political speeches. "Nothing quite like discovering you've been carrying a Dark Lord's soul fragment around since infancy to really liven up a Saturday evening. Honestly, it's done wonders for my weekend entertainment. Much more exciting than television."
Susan groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Harry, please—"
"What?" Harry continued, warming to his theme with the enthusiasm of someone who'd discovered a new toy. "Should I be screaming in horror? Rocking in the corner muttering about the unfairness of destiny? Having a proper breakdown involving tissues and tragic music?" He gestured grandly with his mug. "I'm ten years old, not fragile crystal. Though you'll all be pleased to know I haven't killed anyone yet. Unless you count that spider in the bathroom last week, which was definitely self-defense. It was enormous and clearly had malicious intent."
Sherlock's lips twitched dangerously close to an actual smile. "Very much your father's son. James had exactly that same talent for turning crisis into comedy."
"Or his godfather's influence," Sirius added with unmistakable pride, his grin spreading like wildfire. "I've been working on his sarcasm technique since he could talk. Clearly it's paying dividends."
"Or possibly both, which is precisely why he's completely insufferable," Andromeda observed with the fond exasperation of someone who'd watched the Black family chaos for decades. "The Potter wit combined with Black audacity. Merlin help us all."
Harry shot her a grin that could power half of London. "You say insufferable, I say devastatingly charming. It's all about perspective, really."
"Highly debatable," Amelia said crisply, though her eyes betrayed her amusement. "But perhaps we could return to the subject at hand before this devolves into a philosophical debate about charm versus insufferability. Horcruxes, people. Focus."
John, who had been following this exchange with the expression of someone watching a particularly surreal tennis match, cleared his throat with the deliberate precision of a man reclaiming sanity by force.
"Sorry—Hor-what-now? Could someone please explain, in small words that don't require a degree in magical theology, what exactly we're discussing here?"
Sherlock pivoted toward him with the fluid grace of a dancer, voice shifting into that machine-gun exposition mode that meant his brain had engaged maximum overdrive.
"Horcrux. A Dark magical device created by the deliberate act of splitting one's soul through murder and embedding the resulting fragment in an object for the purpose of achieving immortality. Utterly grotesque in concept, morally reprehensible in execution, but undeniably effective from a purely theoretical standpoint. Voldemort attempted to create several—one too many, as it happens—botched the job spectacularly when he tried to murder Harry, and—" He gestured with theatrical precision toward the boy in question "—accidentally lodged a piece of his fractured soul in the one person who was supposed to die."
John blinked. Then blinked again. The silence stretched long enough to qualify as awkward before he spoke with the sort of careful understatement that was pure Watson.
"Right. So what you're telling me is that your ten-year-old godson has a homicidal squatter living rent-free in his... his magical core, whatever that is... and we're all just sitting here having tea and biscuits about it like it's a perfectly normal Tuesday evening."
"Hot chocolate," Harry corrected cheerfully, raising his mug in demonstration. "And it's actually quite good hot chocolate, if anyone's interested. Sirius made it with those fancy Belgian chocolate things Amelia brought over last week."
"The ones that cost more per ounce than some people make in a day," Amelia added with the sort of resigned fondness that came from enabling Sirius's more expensive habits.
"Worth every Galleon," Sirius declared. "Only the best for my godson. Especially when he's dealing with spiritual parasites and existential crisis management."
John pressed both hands to his temples with the slow, deliberate motion of someone fighting off a migraine of cosmic proportions. "This is completely insane. All of it. Magic. Soul fragments. Talking to snakes. Evil wizards with unpronounceable names. It's absolutely, categorically, definitively impossible."
"And don't worry, Dr. Watson," Harry piped up with the sort of innocent enthusiasm that was anything but innocent, "I plan to start charging Voldemort rent. Possibly with interest. Ten years of utilities, magical core maintenance, and general inconvenience fees should add up to quite a sum. I'm thinking of consulting with Gringotts about the exchange rate for soul fragment accommodation."
The room erupted in snorts and barely suppressed laughter. Even Mycroft's carefully composed expression cracked slightly around the edges.
Sherlock crouched suddenly back in front of Harry, his pale eyes fierce with protective intensity. "This parasite hasn't defined you in a decade, Harry. It won't start now. The evidence is absolutely clear: you're stronger than it. More fundamentally yourself than it could ever be him. That's not philosophical comfort—it's empirical fact."
Harry tilted his head, studying Sherlock with the sort of calculating look that suggested he was measuring the detective against some internal standard and finding the results interesting.
"So what you're saying is that I've been winning a ten-year staring contest with Voldemort's soul fragment, which makes him less 'terrifyingly powerful Dark Lord' and more... what? Pathetic spiritual deadbeat who can't even properly possess a child?"
"Exactly," Sherlock said, his voice carrying fierce pride. "Precisely that."
Mycroft raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, his voice carrying that particular blend of affection and exasperation that characterized his relationship with family drama.
"Touching though this moment of mutual admiration may be, it doesn't address the rather pressing matter of containment strategy. We can hardly rely indefinitely on the boy's admittedly impressive sarcasm as our primary defensive mechanism."
"It's worked brilliantly so far," Harry shot back with unrepentant cheerfulness. "And I'm getting better at it all the time. Practice makes perfect, after all."
"Terrifyingly perfect," Susan muttered, though her fond smile took the sting out of it. "You could probably sass Voldemort himself into a nervous breakdown."
"Now there's a thought," Harry mused, eyes lighting up with the sort of mischief that made adults nervous. "I wonder if dark lords are susceptible to really withering commentary about their fashion choices. That whole 'snake-faced' look really isn't doing him any favors."
"Hereditary," Sirius said with obvious satisfaction, leaning back with the air of someone watching his finest work in action. "Definitely runs in the family. The Potters never met a crisis they couldn't mock into submission."
Amelia exhaled slowly, her voice carrying the sort of steel-wrapped-in-silk authority that could stop wars or start them, depending on her mood.
"Well then. Now that the Holmes brothers have successfully turned my drawing room into their personal theater of intellectual oneupmanship, perhaps we could focus on practical solutions before the child starts charging us admission."
Harry perked up with obvious delight. "Oh, I like that idea. What do you think? Ten Galleons for the full show, five for standing room only?"
"Don't encourage him," John said automatically, though his tone suggested he was fighting off reluctant amusement. "He's clearly dangerous enough without adding entrepreneurial spirit to the mix."
John Watson, who had been following this entire exchange with the expression of someone watching reality perform increasingly elaborate gymnastics, finally reached that particularly British threshold of enough is quite enough. His face now suggested he was either about to file a strongly worded complaint with the universe itself or demand to speak to reality's manager about false advertising.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice carrying that specific quality of controlled, civilized British rage that promised either imminent tea or imminent violence, "but can we—just for one blessed moment—return to the part where Harry is apparently carrying part of someone else's soul inside his body? A murderous psychopath's soul, no less. As in: an actual piece of another person's consciousness, lodged in his... his magical whatever-it-is like some sort of—some sort of—" He flailed for words that could encompass the sheer impossibility. "Psychic parasite from hell?"
"Not in his body, exactly," Andromeda corrected with the smooth precision of someone accustomed to explaining complex medical concepts to concerned relatives. "The fragment is attached to his magical core, which occupies an entirely different metaphysical space from his physical form. Think less 'neurological invader' and more... hmm." She paused, considering her words with academic precision. "Spiritual contamination, perhaps. Like having someone else's magical signature tangled up with your own."
John stared at her for a long moment. Blinked twice with deliberate precision. "Spiritual contamination. Of course. Because that's so tremendously much more reassuring than brain parasites."
"Actually, it rather is," Sherlock observed, drifting closer to John with something that might have been sympathy if Sherlock Holmes were capable of such pedestrian emotions. "Brains are fragile, delicate organs that can be damaged by the slightest trauma. Magical cores, on the other hand, are considerably more resilient. Think of them as... spiritual muscles. They grow stronger with use and can withstand tremendous stress without permanent damage."
John fixed him with a look that could have curdled milk. "Sherlock, that's not actually better."
"Actually," Sirius interrupted from his sprawl on the sofa, voice carrying that particular brand of lazy confidence that came from years of surviving impossible odds, "it rather is better. Considerably better, in fact. Brains are fragile little things—bump them wrong and everything goes pear-shaped. But magical cores?" He gestured toward Harry with obvious pride. "Resilient as hell. The boy's lived with this thing for ten years, and look at him." His grin turned positively wolfish. "Still cheeky, still clever, still absolutely brilliant at winding up every adult in a fifty-mile radius. If Voldemort's little ghost-fragment hasn't managed to ruin him yet, it's hardly likely to start now."
"Exactly," Susan said with fierce conviction, leaning forward in her chair with the intensity of someone defending her territory. "Harry's been completely, one hundred percent Harry this entire time. Not some Dark Lord mini-me or evil overlord in training. Just Harry. Sarcasm and stubborn independence and terrible jokes and all."
Harry raised his mug with the solemn dignity of someone proposing a toast at a state dinner. "Cheers to being sarcastic instead of evil. Honestly, I think that deserves some sort of award. Perhaps a medal. 'Outstanding Achievement in Not Becoming a Dark Lord Despite Ample Opportunity.'"
"Or a warning label," Andromeda murmured dryly. "'Contents may include excessive wit and tendency toward dramatic gestures.'"
"Or a lock on the biscuit tin," Sirius added with the air of someone who'd fought this particular battle and lost. "The boy's got a supernatural ability to find the last custard cream, no matter where I hide it."
Harry's smirk turned positively beatific. "That's skill, not magic. Well, mostly skill. Though I suppose having enhanced senses from my unwanted houseguest does have its advantages. Excellent for locating hidden chocolate."
Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose, her sigh carrying enough weight to stop several wars and possibly rearrange continental drift. "Can we perhaps maintain focus on the subject of Horcruxes for more than thirty consecutive seconds before this entire conversation devolves into biscuit-related warfare?"
"Unlikely," Mycroft observed with the dry precision of someone who'd watched his family in action for decades. "Focus has never been a particular strength of this group. Though the tangents are often more illuminating than the primary discussion."
"Again," John said with the sort of determined patience usually reserved for dealing with particularly trying patients, "Hor-what-now? Could someone please define this term using words that don't require a postgraduate degree in dark magic?"
"Horcrux," Sherlock repeated with the precision of someone spelling out a particularly complex equation. "From the Latin 'horrible' and 'cross'—a crossing or binding of something horrible to the natural order. A Dark magical device created through the deliberate murder of another human being, which splits the perpetrator's soul and allows them to anchor the resulting fragment to a physical object, thus achieving a form of immortality so long as the Horcrux remains intact."
He began pacing again, coat flaring with each sharp turn, voice accelerating into that machine-gun delivery that meant his brain had shifted into maximum analytical mode.
"The process is considered one of the most evil acts possible in magical society—not merely murder, but the deliberate destruction of one's own soul for personal gain. Voldemort created multiple Horcruxes in his quest for immortality, but miscalculated catastrophically when he attempted to murder baby Harry. The Killing Curse rebounded, destroying his physical form, but the sheer force of the magical backlash caused an accidental seventh Horcrux to embed itself in the only other magical signature present—Harry himself."
John absorbed this with the expression of someone trying to swallow a particularly large and unwelcome pill. "So what you're saying is that this Voldemort character turned Harry into an... an accidental magical safety deposit box for his soul fragments."
"That's actually a rather good analogy," Andromeda said with approval. "Though in this case, the safety deposit box has been actively rejecting the contents for a decade."
"With considerable success," Sherlock added, stopping his pacing to focus that laser-like attention on John. "The crucial point, Dr. Watson, is that Harry has carried this fragment for ten years with absolutely no sign of moral corruption, personality alteration, or loss of personal identity. Which speaks volumes about both his fundamental character and the relative weakness of the fragment itself."
"Or," John countered with the stubborn logic that had served him well through medical school and military service, "it speaks volumes about how all of you have completely lost your collective sanity and I'm the only one left with a functioning grasp on reality!"
Harry looked up from his hot chocolate, green eyes sparkling with the sort of mischief that suggested he was about to deploy weapons-grade sass against unsuspecting targets.
"John," he said with the patient tone of someone explaining something obvious to a particularly slow student, "sometimes impossible things happen whether you're ready to accept them or not. Magic, soul parasites, my godfather's questionable taste in motorbike colors—take your pick. The universe doesn't really care whether we find it believable."
Sirius's grin turned positively predatory. "Speaking of which, did I mention the bike's got a built-in sound system now? Plays music loud enough to wake half of London."
"Bright pink and musically offensive," Amelia observed without looking up from her notes. "You've outdone yourself, Sirius."
"I prefer 'iconically distinctive,'" Sirius corrected with wounded dignity. "It's called making a statement."
"The statement being 'arrest me immediately, I'm clearly insane,'" Susan added helpfully.
John pressed both hands to his face, his voice muffled but carrying the unmistakable tone of someone reaching the absolute limit of rational tolerance. "This is completely mad. All of it. Magic and soul fragments and talking to snakes and evil wizards and pink motorbikes that play music. It's absolutely, categorically, undeniably impossible!"
And yet... he found himself looking around the room again. At Sherlock, whose pale eyes were tracking every micro-expression with that terrifying intensity that missed nothing. At Susan, fierce and protective and absolutely ready to fight anyone who threatened Harry. At Amelia, radiating the sort of competent authority that could reorganize governments in her spare time. At Sirius, laughing in the face of cosmic horror with the casual bravery of someone who'd stared down death and found it wanting. At Andromeda, elegant and unflappable even when discussing spiritual contamination. At Mycroft, calculating probabilities and contingencies with the precision of a master chess player. And at Harry himself—cheeky, sassy, utterly determined to find humor in the face of impossible circumstances.
And despite every rational instinct screaming in protest, despite his medical training and military experience and basic grasp of how the world was supposed to work... John found himself believing them.
"Impossible things happen all the time," Harry repeated softly, his smirk gentling into something almost kind. "The trick is learning to roll with them instead of fighting the tide. Welcome to the family, Dr. Watson. No refunds, no exchanges, and absolutely no returns policy."
"Completely insufferable," Mycroft murmured with fond exasperation. "Utterly, categorically insufferable."
"Hereditary trait," Sherlock added with obvious satisfaction. "Runs in all the best families."
"Speaking of which," Mycroft said, arranging himself in the last unoccupied chair with the stately precision of a monarch claiming his rightful throne—every crease of his perfectly tailored suit aligned, every glance a calculated assessment of potential outcomes and strategic implications, "we do need to discuss practical arrangements. Andromeda has recommended consultation with St. Mungo's curse damage specialists, which could take weeks or even months to arrange properly. And it's entirely possible that attempting to remove the fragment might cause more harm than good, given how thoroughly it's integrated with Harry's magical development over the past decade."
"Integration," Harry muttered, settling deeper into his oversized armchair with the air of someone who'd been handed an particularly unwelcome piece of news wrapped in medical jargon. "You make it sound like Voldemort and I have formed some sort of twisted partnership. 'Potter and Associates: Soul Fragment Solutions.'"
"More like an extremely dysfunctional flatshare," Amelia offered with the sort of warm humor that took the sting out of harsh realities. "One of those situations where you're constantly finding someone else's socks in your laundry basket."
"Charming," Harry deadpanned. "I suppose next you'll tell me he leaves dirty dishes in my magical sink."
"Given his history," Susan piped up brightly, "probably bloodstains rather than dishes."
"Stop helping," Harry shot back, though a smirk betrayed his amusement.
Sherlock, meanwhile, had resumed pacing—coat flaring, mind whirring. "The immediate issue is not domestic arrangements with spectral psychopaths but the security implications. If word spreads that Harry is effectively carrying contraband dark magic in his chest cavity, every Death Eater with delusions of relevance will try to kidnap him. Or dissect him. Or both, in some unimaginative order."
"Good grief," John muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You people talk about this like it's… like it's Tuesday."
"It is Tuesday," Sherlock corrected absently, turning sharply on his heel. "Do keep up."
John blinked. "That was not—never mind."
Andromeda folded her hands, measured and calm. "Sherlock is, as usual, irritatingly correct. Which brings us to the next pressing matter: Hogwarts. Term begins in September."
Harry sat bolt upright, every muscle tense. "You're not keeping me out. I don't care if I've got Voldemort squatting in my magical real estate—I'm not missing Hogwarts."
"Relax," Sirius said immediately, leaning forward, voice carrying the kind of protective growl that could silence a room. "You're going. Hogwarts is your right. No one is denying that."
"Good," Harry said firmly, then added with trademark sass, "Because if anyone tried, I'd have to remind them that I've survived ten years of Sherlock without going homicidal. Which frankly deserves at least a gold star sticker and unrestricted boarding school privileges."
"My godson," Sirius said with fierce pride. "Master of understatement and sarcasm in equal measure."
"Clearly inherited from his mother," Andromeda murmured dryly, though her eyes softened.
Mycroft adjusted his cuffs, serene in the face of familial theatrics. "Professor Dumbledore must be informed. Select members of the staff as well—the school matron at the very least. Discretion will be paramount, but transparency with key personnel is non-negotiable."
"Of course," Sherlock said with a sly smile. "Tell the one man in Britain who can't keep a lemon drop secret. Excellent strategy."
"Albus Dumbledore is many things," Mycroft said coolly, "but he is not indiscreet."
"He wears half-moon spectacles and purple boots," Sherlock fired back. "He *is* indiscretion wrapped in twinkle."
Harry snorted into his hot chocolate. "Finally. Someone said it."
John, who had been following this with mounting disbelief, finally snapped. "Hold on. We're… we're enrolling him in a *magical boarding school*, while also monitoring his condition as the… the host—of a *soul fragment*—belonging to the most dangerous wizard in recent history? That's the plan?"
"That's exactly the plan," Sherlock confirmed with the smug flourish of a man unveiling the punchline to a private joke. "Welcome to the Holmes family, Dr. Watson. As you can see, our crises operate on somewhat… unconventional parameters."
"Unconventional?" John repeated, staring at him like a man confronted with a riddle made of madness. "He's got—he's literally got—" He broke off, hands flailing in frustrated disbelief. "You know what, fine. Magical boarding school. Soul fragments. Why not. At this point, I half expect someone to tell me the family dog's a dragon."
"Don't be ridiculous," Susan chirped. "It's a kneazle."
John blinked. "A what?"
Harry leaned over, green eyes dancing with wicked humor. "Think cat. But sassier. And occasionally tries to eat postmen."
"I hate this," John said flatly.
"You'll adjust," Harry promised, smirking. "You already live with Sherlock. That's basically wizard orientation in disguise."
John let out a strangled laugh despite himself, sinking into his chair like a man surrendering to the tide. "God help me. You're right."
Sirius clapped him on the shoulder, grinning like a wolf. "Welcome to the family, mate. Hope you like chaos."
John muttered into his tea, "At least chaos makes sense. Eventually."
Harry raised his cup in mock salute. "Not this kind."
And as the conversation spiraled back into logistics—wards, schedules, contingency plans—John realized with a sinking, inevitable certainty that Baker Street hadn't just introduced him to Sherlock Holmes. It had dropped him headfirst into a world where the impossible wasn't improbable, it was *domestic*.
The game, clearly, had just rewritten the rules.
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