Fanfic: Sherlock’s Wand by OtakuElf (Free to read, 564,411Clicks)

Description:

Wands, growing up, Hogwarts, and friends. A crossover.

Characters:

No Archive Warnings ApplyMycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes Sherlock Holmes & Victor Trevor Mycroft Holmes & Uncle RudySherlock Holmes Mycroft Holmes Mummy (Sherlock) Sherlock Holmes’ Father Garrick Ollivander Victor Trevor Uncle Rudy (Sherlock) Sebastian WilkesWands NaNoWriMo Dinovember

Summary:

Summary:

Wands, growing up, Hogwarts, and friends. A crossover.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.),Notes:

Not my fandom, but for some reason this is the second HP story that showed up while I was writing for #NaNoWriMo2021.If you notice canon errors, please let me know. This fic takes place 10 years after the Battle of Hogwarts.Also, HP is not my usual space to write fanfic in. Please be gentle

Chapter 1: Mycroft’s First Wand

Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes was an incredible mimic. He learned wand work at an early age, not because he was a prodigy, as the unintelligent seemed to assume, but because he could precisely copy those around him. It drove his older brother Mycroft nearly insane. For one thing, because Sherlock kept borrowing “Mycroft’s” wand. The one that Mummy had given to her elder son to use in practice. It was Dogwood with a unicorn hair core, and tended toward dramatic explosions, much like Mummy, and much to the delight of her younger son. Dogwood, as a wand wood, liked practical jokes, and that’s exactly what Sherlock loved to use it for. Mycroft, so sober and serious and elder brotherly, desperately wanted his own wand. “The wand chooses the wizard, Sherlock. Just think of having a wand that is perfectly right for you!” he said to his brother more than once.Mr. Ollivander’s shop was in Diagon Alley. They didn’t come to London often, as Father said he couldn’t afford the amount of ice cream that his family could eat at Fortesque’s. Sherlock was holding Father’s hand, because he had a tendency to, as his father put it, “explore”. “This is a big day for Mycroft, Sherlock,” his father told him, “So let’s keep the exploring to a minimum, shall we?”They stopped and got all of the books on the “Hogwarts Required Reading: First Year” list. It wasn’t that they didn’t already have the books in the library at home, but Mummy said it was important. “Mycroft needs to build his own professional library. Goodness, this brings back memories!”Sherlock was happy for Mycroft. He wished he were old enough to go to Hogwarts with his brother. Father bought Sherlock a book on dragons, because he said, “Goodness indeed! It will be very quiet at home, won’t it? So Sherlock will need something new to read as well!”There had also been the purchase of a small, brown owl that Mycroft immediately named ‘Diogenes’. “I’ll send Diogenes with letters every week, Sherlock. Don’t worry!”Now, Mummy and Father had taken them all to Olivander’s for Mycroft’s first real wand. Mycroft, of course, was eleven. Sherlock was four years old. Sherlock was not paying attention to Mr. Ollivander measuring Mycroft -. Mummy’s strong suit was Arithmancy, and so the measurement of even such an important person in his life as Mycroft, was old hat.While the adults were focused on The First Wand, Sherlock managed to slip back into the storage shelves of the wandmaster’s shop, running his little fingers over the long, slender boxes. Neat, orderly, they were organized according to some arcane system of Mr. Ollivander’s own invention. Sherlock could not reach very high at all. Not like Mycroft, who had reached his growth spurt, according to their father, and had suddenly become ever so much taller. Mycroft had shown him how to do many small spells with Mummy’s old Dogwood wand, and Sherlock could imagine the possibilities held within the cardboard of these miraculous creations of wood and wonder. “Maybe one of these will be mine,” the little boy thought as he listened to the discussion drifting down the aisle from the shop front. A globe of light stationed in the aisle descended from the ceiling high above to just over Sherlock’s shoulder. Pulling one of the elegant boxes from the bottom shelf, he opened it, and gingerly stroked his finger along the smooth dark wood. Nothing happened. Nor did anything occur on the next four that Sherlock rummaged through, though he took them from a wide variety of shelves. Nothing drew him. Nothing was right.No sparks, but no painful shocks either. Sherlock got the feeling that all of these wands were painfully, patiently waiting. They wanted to be out of these boxes and into the hands for which they had been created.Sitting back on the wide wooden boards of the floor, the little boy blew a dark curl out of his blue and green eyes. Dust danced down from the ceiling, through the magical light of the globe still hovering above him. Looking up into the darkness, on a high shelf, the boy thought he saw a glow. Warm. Not light, but something.Curiosity is a hard taskmaster. The ladders here were much too heavy for a four year old to move, and the rungs too far apart to walk up like an adult. Nothing to help a little boy reach those high shelves otherwise. Sherlock clambered to his feet, then set one foot on the second shelf in front of him, where one of the boxes he’d already looked into had been. He tested it to see if it would hold his weight, and then began to climb.The shelves were solid. It still took time to climb them, as he was just a very little boy. He struggled upward. It took forever, and he knocked other wand boxes from the shelves as he made his way higher and higher. In trying to catch one of the boxes falling from the shelf, Sherlock realized his mistake. Clinging to the wooden support, he looked down.Sherlock was high up. Very high up. Higher than father or Uncle Rudy were tall. When he’d been flying with Father he’d been higher up, of course. But still, this was a far way to fall. Turning to look back up toward that last shelf that was his goal, he was moving more slowly now. Tired arms, sore legs pushing up, he was almost there.His goal, a plain, cream colored box, did not exactly glow. Not when Sherlock looked closely. It’s just that Sherlock knew that this was the one he wanted to look at. It didn’t feel as though it was *his* wand. Just something about it attracted him. It promised to be interesting.There was also a problem. Clinging to the dark wooden shelves, clutching the plain cardboard wand box under one arm, Sherlock was not certain how he was going to get himself back down. Or to open the box to look at the wand inside it.He didn’t really want to shout for help. Mycroft would fuss. Mr. Ollivander might take the wand away, and then Sherlock would not get to examine it. He really couldn’t figure out how to go one way or the other.“Sherlock!” he heard Mummy shout. They must have realized that he was missing. Startled, scrabbling at the hard wood of the shelf, the boy felt his arms give way. Holding tightly to the wand box, he began to fall, trying desperately to save the wand, and keep it from breaking. He didn’t fall very far before Father’s gentle wandwork cushioned him. Wingardium Leviosa brought him slowly, safely down. The globe of light followed, then floated off to hover over Mr. Ollivander’s head.“Couldn’t wait for your own wand, could you, young man,” Mr. Ollivander twinkled at him. “Let’s see what you have there.”Sherlock looked down at the box he had been clutching. Carefully he lifted the lid free to look at a light brown wand, about ten inches long. “Short,” Sherlock thought out loud.“Not unusually short, no. That would mean the wizard was somehow lacking. It’s a good size. English Oak,” Mr. Ollivander told him, “But I think not for you. You will need something with a bit more give.”“This is not my wand,” Sherlock told him earnestly.“No,” Mr. Ollivander said with a smile, “The wand chooses the wizard, Master Holmes. This one is English Oak with a phoenix hair core. Unyielding, faithful, and likely to go to someone who has a care for the natural things in life.”“No,” Sherlock told him, “I think,” but then he didn’t know what to tell the man. Most people didn’t understand him. Even Mummy and Father didn’t understand him. Only Mycroft. “What did Mycroft get?”Mycroft bent down to show Sherlock – “It’s long, ‘lock! Twelve inches, ebony. With a dragon heartstring core. Isn’t it lovely?” Mycroft’s wand was long, and straight. The handle was smooth, but carved with angles, not a curve on it. The tip was a tiny pyramid. Sherlock put his finger out to touch the wand. Mycroft’s wand wanted nothing to do with Sherlock. “It is lovely. It wants Mycroft. I don’t think it will let me use it. “No,” Mycroft sighed, “I’ll be going to Hogwarts, Sherlock. It will come with me. You’ll have to keep practicing with Mummy’s old wand.”“No,” Sherlock told him earnestly, “I mean your wand doesn’t want me to use it ever. It likes you, Mycroft. Very much.”His brother looked pleased at that. Gently lifting it, Mycroft gave the wand a wave, and the glow of golden sparkles followed the tip through the air.“Perhaps you have a talent for wand lore, young Master Sherlock,” Mr. Ollivander told him. “Wands do speak, if you know how to listen.”Sherlock looked up seriously, “I listen to everything.”“You hear,” Mycroft reminded him, “But you do not observe.”“This wand,” Sherlock told them holding up the box with the English oak wand, “Doesn’t mind me. It even likes me. But it’s not my wand.”Mr. Olivander began to tidy all the wands and boxes with a swish of his own wand. “Come back in seven years, Master Holmes, and we’ll make sure you find your wand.”“Do you want me to help you pick them all up?” the little boy asked the tall, thin, wandmaker.“No, lad. They all know where they should go,” and with a flick of the wand Mr. Ollivander sent them all back onto the shelves, except for the single box that Sherlock was holding.Sherlock looked carefully at the 10 inch wand, English Oak, with Phoenix feather core and memorized it for his Mind Palace. He would know it again when he saw it. Know the carved curves scrolling down the sides to the smooth flow of the handle. A handle built to fit one person’s hand. A faithful wand.Handing it up to the old man, Sherlock looked at his elder brother. “Will you come back with me to choose *my* wand, Mycroft?”“Of course I will, Sherlock,” Mycroft grinned at him. “I can’t wait to see what yours will be like.”

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