Chapter Text
Sherlock’s ninth birthday had been utterly terrible.
Not long before, he had lost his dearest companion—a small red-haired puppy. The sudden passing of that little life left him restless and confused, unable to make sense of it, nor could he bring himself to recall any of it. All of this clashed violently with the rational way he had always seen the world.
Outsiders often said that, as descendants of the original Slytherin side branch, his family ought to be gloomy, gothic, with a faint air of darkness. Yet this family was nothing of the sort. His mother was obsessed with flowers and herbs, and tinkered with all kinds of magical devices. His father was an Auror at the Ministry of Magic, and a thorough Muggle enthusiast. And his brother? He was utterly obsessed with British afternoon desserts, more than anyone else in the world.
The birthday party had been a disaster. Everyone seemed to be pretending everything was fine, turning a blind eye to Sherlock’s sorrow.
At last, he stormed out of that silly party.
Even if it meant disobeying his strict mother, even if it left all their relatives sitting in awkward silence—he could not bear it any longer.
He already knew exactly what would have happened next: the moment the birthday magic descended, the air would tremble, and every object in the house would burst into that ridiculous birthday song. His mother would present him with the new flying broom he had once longed for. He had predicted every single detail two weeks ago.
And that was precisely why it all felt so unbearably boring.
Sherlock angrily stamped on a dry twig, then used magic to shape the fragments into a tiny skull, waving it in his hand as a threat.
Mycroft came huffing and puffing toward him.
Before he could bring himself to cast a Stunning Spell, Sherlock lit the wooden skull in defiance and hurled it at his brother, then turned and fled into his own little sanctuary—the only normal place in the whole house.
It was a small, dark storage room.
Inside were potions, records of magical crimes, and his most beloved beehive, secured safely by magic above the fireplace, like a quiet cluster of flame.
He did not know how many days and nights he had hidden away there, until the first snowflake drifted down from the sky and froze into ice on his palm.
He began to study magic on his own, even though his Hogwarts acceptance letter had not yet arrived. Truth be told, he did not much want to go there anyway, listening to professors read from books he had already finished two years prior.
He only returned, again and again, to sit quietly by his friend’s grave.
Picnics were gone, along with all the ordinary days he had once taken for granted. It was as if he had been torn away from this place entirely—a wound not even spells could mend.
It was not until Christmas Day that he noticed his family trying, once more, to return to how things used to be, arranging magical decorations for the holiday.
In the yard, glowing, walking snowmen greeted him gently, holding out gifts. Mycroft rode on a magical broom, and had surprisingly lost a good deal of weight in just a few months, as if he had secretly used some forbidden curse.
He held out a flying broom to Sherlock. Sherlock did not take it.
He only stared at his brother, then at his mother, faint dark circles ringing his eyes.
Watched as they carefully held out something special—a crystal ball.
A crystal ball of foresight, able to glimpse one’s future fate. Once, he would have seized it with delight, desperate to unravel the mysteries of what was to come.
But he was not the same boy anymore.
Somewhere along the way, the papers by his fireplace had shifted from ancient puzzles to studies of magical murder. And for reasons he could not explain, he had grown to deeply hate all magic related to water.
He turned to leave, but Mycroft grabbed him firmly and pulled him toward the Christmas table.
“You have no idea how worried Mother has been,” Mycroft said sharply.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Surely his Slytherin peers at Hogwarts ought to have taught Mycroft how to speak his mind properly, instead of rambling like a child playing at grown-ups.
He sat down and forced a smile.
It was not a happy one. It felt more like a silent mockery of his brother’s frustrated face.
Then came the annual ritual of Magic and Love.
Father insisted on this gift-sharing tradition, copying Muggles, even though there was no Jesus in their magical world.
This time, Father shared a strange machine—pure white, fitted with several lenses.
When it was passed to Sherlock, he could not help but look.
Beneath the lenses, an ordinary leaf was broken down into countless tiny fragments.
“This is science. It’s called a microscope,” Father said warmly, his eyebrows—so like Sherlock’s own—lifting with delight, his grey-black eyes softening as he looked at his wife.
Mother smiled at him, the most natural smile in the world.
She wore a pale grey linen sweater, something she loved deeply: weaving soft clothes with magic, stitch by stitch. Mycroft was clearly wearing a matching brown one. But Sherlock had always stubbornly refused to put on his own black sweater.
Her gaze rested gently on Sherlock, warm and tender. Then she slowly pulled an envelope from her arms, its golden crest glinting softly in the firelight.
Before Sherlock could speak, she whispered, her voice holding careful hope: “We actually received this last year, on your birthday, Sherlock. You’ve been accepted to Hogwarts early—a rare exception, specially approved by the school board. This year’s letter has arrived on time, too.”
She paused, her fingers brushing the edge of the envelope, and spoke even more softly to the tense boy before her: “You may choose to start early, or skip grades… whenever you’re ready, dear, you can tell us.”
Sherlock lifted his eyes to his mother’s fluffy black curls, to the unreserved warmth and sincerity in her gaze. It was too intense, and he almost looked away. But he only pressed his lips together, and shook his head slowly, firmly, turning down the offer everyone else would have killed for.
He did not want to go to that school far away on an island. He did not want to waste time learning things he could already master faster, and more thoroughly, on his own.
Sherlock stayed silent throughout the entire Christmas dinner.
Forks and knives clinked softly against plates. His family’s gentle voices, the crackle of the fire, the faint magical rustle of the snowmen outside—all sounded muffled, as if separated by thick glass. He stared down, his fingers tracing the table edge unconsciously, knowing exactly where he truly wanted to go.
London.
A land marked as Muggle territory, one wizards rarely stepped into, and often looked down upon. But to him, it held something far more fascinating than magic. He had read countless Muggle detective books, obsessed with the way truths were pieced together through observation, logic, and rational deduction. He was deeply drawn to the precise rules and reactions of chemistry. It was that very love that had led his father to give him the microscope.
He had always felt like he did not belong in this bright, superficial magical world.
To too many wizards, magic was a shortcut to everything, a key that solved all problems without thought. They had abandoned the most precious thing of all: rational thinking. When faced with strange cases, they relied only on magical detection and spell traces, never pausing to weigh logic or examine details. He had challenged their confident conclusions more than once, only to be met with disdain and misunderstanding. They had already decided that magic could not be wrong, and that a wizard’s judgment needed no defense from Muggle “crude” reasoning.
Friendship between Muggles and wizards was still a quiet taboo on both sides. Ever since Mr. Harry Potter saved the world with courage and love, so many had loudly claimed to break down the walls between the two worlds. But after all these years, how much had really changed? Nothing but empty words and self-decent pretense.
Sherlock glanced around the warm, glowing room, and his sense of alienation only grew deeper. He did not want the magical path everyone else chased. He did not want to follow thoughtless conclusions. He wanted to use reason and science, combined with magical truth, to uncover the details everyone else ignored.
And only in London— in the Muggle world, ruled by logic, unchained by magic—could he find that.
The candlelight dimmed. Plates were cleared away by magic. Warmth filled the room, but not a single bit of it reached Sherlock’s heart.
Mycroft stepped forward once more, and pressed the clear crystal ball firmly into his hand. Coldness spread from his fingertips. Inside the ball swirled faint, misty blue light, holding the tracks of all unborn fates. Sherlock only glanced down, a cold, dismissive smile touching his lips. He had never cared for the future. Predetermined, boring facts had never interested him.
But Mycroft lifted his chin, a hint of challenge in his expression, and placed his own hand over the crystal.
In an instant, the blue light surged. The mist cleared, and a clear picture unfolded at its center—Mycroft’s future.
He stood tall in a crisp Auror uniform, behind a desk piled with files, his gaze sharp and unyielding. Time passed quickly. Lines appeared at his eyes. He grew thinner, calmer, more unreadable, until he became a mysterious man hidden deep within the Ministry, holding countless secrets, untouchable to all.
The light in the crystal faded. Mycroft pulled his hand away, a satisfied smile on his face. He clearly loved the future he saw.
Sherlock only looked away, pushing the crystal back. No envy touched his eyes, only deeper distance and contempt. He would never be bound by a set future, never confined by magical prophecies. His path would never be defined by a crystal ball.
But that night, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
If the crystal could show the future, could it not also show the past? The parts he could not remember, as if they had been carved out of his memory—especially the summer before he turned ten. He could not shake the feeling that something vital lay hidden there.
So he slipped downstairs, silently into the living room.
He cast a Silencing spell on himself, crouched in the shadows, his breath muted by magic. Beneath the Christmas tree, the crystal lay quietly in its box, glowing faintly blue in the moonlight.
Sherlock reached out gently and placed his palm upon it.
To his surprise, no scenes from the past appeared. No lost memories, no clues he had been chasing.
Instead, there was a boy’s face.
A blond boy around his own age, smiling at him.
Eyes impossibly blue, clear and bright, gentle as if he had been shaped by the softest magic in the world. Sherlock did not understand why, but that was exactly what he thought, at first sight.
The images shifted.
A younger him, standing beside that boy, spinning and running in soft light.
Later, their fingers touching, each putting on a simple ring.
Still later, them as adults, lying together, two souls peaceful and happy, curled into one another, kissing softly.
The house fell silent. But Sherlock lay awake, wide-eyed.
He replayed the crystal’s vision again and again in his mind. He had imagined his future: alone in London, lost in Muggle crimes and chemistry. He had imagined turning his back on the magical world, living by logic alone. He had imagined his broken past, searching for every missing piece from that summer.
He had pictured a thousand possibilities. But never this.
No lonely adventures in London. No rejection from the wizarding world. No shattered memories. In the crystal’s warm glow, his whole life lay clear before him.
His future would never be just him.
There would be someone. His partner, for a lifetime.
The crystal’s light vanished. Cold darkness closed in, swallowing every warm, tender image, leaving only a faint chill on his skin.
Sherlock snatched his hand away. Two conflicting feelings raged inside him.
A strange, burning warmth flooded his chest—a flutter he had never known, a quiet ache for that gentle fate. But right behind it came deeper revulsion, deeper resistance.
He had never imagined needing someone like that. Never wanted a lover, a destiny tied to another. His life belonged to reason, to truth, to London’s streets and mysteries. It should never be chained to something so soft, so sentimental.
If he could, he would use every spell, every rational means, to break this fate with his own hands.
He would never let himself become something so foolish.