1. Books, Wands and Every Flavour Beans
Sherlock looked around his room. It had already gained a thin layer of dust and it bore a sense of neglect – though that last might be because he never paid much attention to his room. Usually, the maid would come and wave her wand and everything would automatically clean itself up. But soon he'd be on his way, and he wouldn't have to look twice at the mess in his room that he made two hours after cleaning already.
Sherlock sighed – he had refused to let his mother dress his room in blue and bronze; he didn't want such an obvious statement of identity. To be honest, he wasn't even sure he was supposed to be a Ravenclaw. They were supposed to be intelligent and clever, and while Sherlock certainly was both, he didn't care about knowledge and certain trivial facts – something Ravenclaws wouldn't dream of doing. Mycroft – oh, good, perfect Mycroft – would surely disapprove. In fact, he did – nothing Sherlock ever did could satisfy his fifteen year-old brother, who had received a prefect badge that morning on top of everything. If Sherlock could only avoid getting sorted in Ravenclaw...
One week and it would be the first of September. One week and he'd know.
But before it was that time, he had to get his books and potions ingredients, robes and a cauldron. Sherlock was looking forward to getting his wand; it would mean really being a part of the wizarding world, really being able to do all the wondrous things he heard his brother talk about (not that he hadn't nicked his wand before, but he just wanted one of his own). And there was only one place to get all the stuff he needed; Diagon Alley. The trip to the wizarding shopping area was due later that day and though Sherlock wanted to go alone, Mummy and Mycroft insisted he go with them.
He smoothed out his Hogwarts letter on his ebony desk and swept his eyes over the curving, written in green ink letters, signed by the Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. The desire Sherlock had to go to the wizarding school was overwhelming; he'd be free of his mum, his brother (to a certain extent, at least) and the big, empty house that was the Holmes manor. Sherlock closed his eyes and thought about his dad. Well, he thought about his portraits – moving, of course. He had died ten years ago during the final battle of the Second Wizarding War. Sherlock had only been about a year old, so he had close to no memories of him. His dad had been one of the few members of pureblood families to fight against the Death Eaters instead of with them. It made Sherlock proud, deep inside, to be the son of such brave a man, who had died defending not only his family, but the wizarding world as well. One thing Sherlock's mother kept repeating was that the Holmes manor hadn't been as quiet back then as it was now.
Sherlock jumped up from his contemplations when he heard his mother shriek from downstairs.
'Sherlock! We're going in ten minutes, make sure you're ready!'
Sherlock sighed and pushed his chair back with his feet. He put on the tattered black (well, almost grey) Converse sneakers Mycroft hated so much (and for that reason alone it was worth it), and he pulled his dark grey travelling cloak from his closet. Just in time he got downstairs to find his mother and Mycroft standing beside the big fireplace in the drawing room, travelling cloak and all.
'Ready, dear?' the forty year-old woman asked, hair in a messy, curly bun in her neck.
Sherlock nodded and stepped forward, grabbing a little bit of the Floo Powder she held out to him. He stepped into the fireplace, saying loud and clear; 'Diagon Alley!'
John went through his letter from Hogwarts one last time before he made to leave his room. It was a small, messy thing; a single bed was stuffed in the corner, a closet and a desk barely fitting against the wall opposite. Clothes, old books and other personal belongings were everywhere, scattered across the floor, chairs and desk. John sighed; he'd miss it. Though he was excited about going to Hogwarts, he would miss his tiny room, his tiny house and his mum, dad and sister.
He'd be going to Diagon Alley with his mum later on the day. It was his first time going; he'd never needed anything before and with his dad being a Muggle it was safer (according to his mum) to go as little as possible. Whenever his mother needed something, she'd go alone and John and Harriet were left waiting, wanting so badly to go along. And now it would be time for John (Harriet still had to wait two years) to see the amazing wizarding world and the school; it was time for him to become a wizard.
They had known before that John and Harriet were magical; John's mother had told his father that she was a witch very early on, before they started on kids, so he knew what he would be up against. And just like that, they had been raised part Muggle, part magical.
Before John could leave his room, a knock came on his door. Moments later John's dad came in, smiling at his son. John smiled back, feeling slightly awkward. 'Dad.'
'Son,' his dad replied, sitting on the edge of John's bed. He patted the space next to him and John followed his example. 'I want to wish you a safe trip and a good year.'
John frowned; he just remembered that his dad went on a business trip that day and wouldn't be able to see John off the next week. John nodded. 'Thanks, Dad.'
'And I know that this is all very exciting, but please don't get carried away. Please take care of yourself.'
'Of course,' John reassured him. 'I will, Dad, trust me.'
John's dad nodded and stood up; the bed groaned. He spread his arms awkwardly and John returned the hug. 'I'll miss you,' John said softly. His dad patted the back of his head.
'I'll miss you too, son,' he said.
They went downstairs together so John, Harriet and their mother could see him off. They shared one big family hug and that was it; Mr Watson was in the cab, on his way to the train station. John watched until it turned around the corner before he went inside the house again.
'How are we going to Diagon Alley?' John asked his mum.
'We can't risk Apparating,' she answered. 'You're too young and I've got to keep an eye on both you and Harry since there's no one to look after her now. Our hearth isn't connected to the Floo Network, so that means...'
'Muggle transport?' John said with a sigh. 'When?'
'When we've packed all our things and are ready to go,' his mother said with a wide grin.
John grinned back and immediately dashed upstairs to grab his backpack and his list of things he'd need at Hogwarts; robes, gloves, several books (such as A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot), a cauldron, a set of brass scales and lastly, a wand. John grinned; he'd wanted a wand ever since his parents told him he could do magic.
Grinning like an idiot, he came back downstairs, where his mother and Harriet where already waiting. 'I'm ready,' he said.
And off they went, using the tube system to get to the Leaky Cauldron in London. It turned out to be a dark, quiet and utterly magnificent little café. John could feel the magic radiating off it, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The fact that he could see it confirmed that he was a wizard and he was utterly happy.
There were two men behind the counter; one very small, with red hair, and the other big and quite fat, with grizzled grey hair and a messy beard of the same colour. They both smiled broadly as John, Harriet and their mother came in. She smiled back and led her children to the counter.
'Mrs Watson,' the fat man said happily in a heavy Scottish accent. 'Anything to drink?'
'No, Gary,' she replied, putting her hands on her children's shoulders. 'We're going to buy John's school stuff. The train to Hogwarts leaves next week.'
'Oh, right!' Gary said with a big grin. 'I should have known. So you're John, then?'
John nodded, feeling a bit awkward. 'Yeah.'
'Oh, you're gonna love it there. And a bit of mischief is never out of the question, eh?' Gary winked.
John grinned as the red haired man gave him a slap on the upper arm and chided, 'Gary!'
'I'm just joking, Billy,' Gary sniggered, but he winked at John again and now there was a definite smirk on John's face. His mother said goodbye to the two men and she led her children to the door behind the counter, which led to a small courtyard, furnished only by a few bins. She got her wand out – John almost made a whimpering noise; he wanted a wand so bad – and tapped a particular brick three times. John frowned in confusion, but soon his eyes widened in shock and wonder. The wall was moving.
It was actually moving; the bricks were rearranging themselves, forming a gigantic archway. And John stared.
The path before him was crowded with wizards and witches, who were dressed in cloaks and robes and pointy hats. Crooked little shops were on his right and left side, magic filling the air. There were shops with cauldrons, pets, brooms (John's mother had told him about the sport named Quidditch and John was very curious – he'd never seen it but judging from what his mother told him it sounded pretty damn awesome), owls, toads and cats, books, parchment, quills, an apothecary...
'Let's get our money first, shall we?' John's mother said and she smiled at her gaping children.
They approached a huge, white building, with big, bronze doors. Next to it stood a goblin, who looked at them without a trace of emotion. When they were past the set of double doors, they encountered another pair. John's mother whispered in his children's ear; 'Ten years ago, during the War, the goblins were severely repressed. It took a huge effort to convince them that they could continue running Gringotts, without any interfering of us. They still don't trust us, but it was better than five years ago...'
John frowned and looked at the silver doors in front of him, a text engraved in them.
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there
'And Harry Potter really succeeded in stealing the Hufflepuff cup?' he asked his mother, still with that frown on his face. 'Especially with the fact that goblins don't like wizards much?'
Mrs Watson nodded. 'Dragon and all.'
John grinned and shook his head. All the stories about the legendary Boy Who Lived always seemed so farfetched, but they turned out to be true in the end. A boy, seventeen years of age, had defeated the darkest wizard of all times. It was awe-inspiring and John could never get enough of those stories.
They entered a long hall, where rows of goblins were seated on high stools, weighing big coins and gems and studying gold and silver. Mrs Watson walked purposefully towards one goblin. She showed the goblin her key wordlessly and, after a brief moment of inspection, he gave it back to her. He got the attention of another goblin and he walked up to the family, taking directions from the other goblin. He nodded and said, 'This way, please.'
The goblin led Mrs Watson and her children to a door tucked away in a corner. The room – or more like corridor – was cold, stone and dark, aside from a few torches lighting the way every few feet. The goblin trotted away in silence, gesturing for them to follow him. They walked for a little while until they came at a railway track. It took a few seconds for a kart to slide to them, and they got in with help of their mother.
The ride was fast and fun; John enjoyed the cold, damp wind in his face and the jerky movements the kart made. He loved the bouncy track, the way his body swayed with the corners and the climbs and the drops. Eventually it stopped though, and they got out again (Harry looking a bit green in the face) and they were in front of a simple door. The goblin asked for the key and opened it, revealing a small space with a reasonable amount of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts. Mrs Watson collected a few of them in a velvet pouch before thanking the goblin, who closed the door again.
The ride back was equally enjoyable for John, and he almost pouted when the kart jolted to a halt again. John made a mental note to get on a broom as fast as possible, even though first years weren't allowed a broom of their own at Hogwarts.
They walked down the white, stone porch of the wizarding bank, their pockets now full with money to spend. John looked around in glee, wanting to visit every single shop.
'What's on your list, dear?' his mother asked him. John fished his Hogwarts letter from his backpack and unfolded it. 'Robes,' he said, reading the first lines.
'Oh, then you'll need Madame Malkin's,' Mrs Watson said in a happy tone. 'That's that way. Come on...'
Madame Malkin's Robes For All Occasions was a cosy little shop, and John's heart thumped when he went in. He was about to buy his first things for Hogwarts.
'Hogwarts?' Madame Malkin asked in a friendly manner, her short frame dressed in lilac, dashing about the shop. 'Come, let's get your measurements done. Will only be a while. And, in what House do you think you'll be sorted in?'
'Well...' John stammered. 'My mother was in Gryffindor.'
'Fine House, Gryffindor is,' Madame Malkin said, nodding. 'Even Slytherin has improved on its students since the last ten years.'
John's robes were ready to go a few minutes later and they set out to Flourish and Blotts, the bookshop where he'd be able to buy all his books for his classes at Hogwarts. The enormous amount of books cramped in the tiny space distracted John and he could only look at the piles of old, new, colourful or brown books, stacked on top of each other or stuffed in a cabinet. John was so distractedly looking around him that he didn't notice the person in front of him. They collided and almost knocked a stack of leather-bound books over, but both remained on their feet.
'Sorry,' John mumbled, looking up. He saw a tall boy – a few inches taller than him – with wild, dark curls and piercing pale green eyes. 'You alright?'
'Yes,' the boy said, in a surprisingly deep voice. John estimated him about the same age as himself, but he couldn't be sure; after all, he was tall and his face was very angular, with prominent cheekbones. 'You?'
'I'm okay,' John said, a small smile creeping on his face. He held out his hand and his smile broadened when the boy took it. His hand was warm, coming as a surprise to John, who had expected a cold touch from the pale boy. 'John,' John said.
'Sherlock.'
'Well, nice to meet you. I've, uh... got to get my books.'
'Yes.'
And John couldn't be sure, but he though he saw a smile on the boy's face. John smiled briefly and walked away, searching for his books. He could feel the boy stare at him for a while after, but soon he too turned his back and walked out of the shop.
John was carrying a heavy box of books when they were done, and the stuff kept piling up; his potions ingredients from the apothecary, his crystal phials, his cauldron and his set of scales along with his robes. They spread the load with the three of them and soon there was only one stop left; Ollivander's wand shop.
The door creaked as he opened it (John wondered why any door in the wizarding world should creak) and he entered the shaggy, narrow store. His mother and sister sat down on the wobbly chairs in the corner, while John stepped forward to the counter without needing his mother to urge him on. It was time to get his wand.
John coughed nervously and an old man appeared from around the corner, where loads of rectangular boxes could be seen, stuffed on top and beside each other. He was thin, which was accentuated by the heavy robes he was wearing, his hair was thin and white and fuzzy and his eyes were very, very pale with age and experience and mystery.
It must be Ollivander.
John fought the urge to kneel, or bow, or something. The stories he'd heard about the wandmaker were incredible and sometimes horrible; how he'd sold thousands of wands, how he'd sold two of them to the most famous wizards in history, how he'd been abducted by one of them, threatened by him, almost killed by him, and saved by the other. And even though Ollivander had helped Voldemort, the wizarding world still held an enormous amount of respect for him because he hadn't done it willingly, and he'd helped Harry Potter in return.
'I, ah... Came to get my wand.'
The pale eyes focused on John and Ollivander smiled. 'Ah... John Watson, isn't it? Oh, I remember the day I got your mother here... Oh, there she is! Pear and unicorn hair, wasn't it? How's it doing?' he asked, and he smiled when Mrs Watson held up her wand, sparks shooting out of the end. 'Excellent. Now, let's find you one, shall we?'
John nodded and smiled. 'Please.'
Ollivander waved his wand at some tools, which John later recognised as a tapeline. They swirled around him and started measuring. Ollivander scurried off into the hallway he'd just come from, dragging his long fingers over the dusty boxes, pulling some out, muttering under his breath.
John tried out several wands, but none felt right. But it didn't take long before he finally had success.
Ollivander held out quite a long wand, and the moment John grabbed it he could feel a tingle go through his body, all the way to his toes. A warm feeling went to his heart and he smiled; so this was his wand.
Ollivander smiled a bright smile. 'Ah! A nice wand, very nice indeed. Cedar and unicorn hair, reasonably pliant, eleven point eight inches. It'll do very nicely for you, Mr Watson.'
John felt proud and he inspected his wand a little bit closer. It was an elegant little thing; the cedar wood was smooth and polished, there were no lumps or dimples. The tip was sharp and the handle firm.
Ollivander put it into a brand new box, far from the old and dusty one it had been in before. John gave him seven Galleons and Ollivander waved them off.
It was late when they returned to their house. John delightedly took all his stuff upstairs with him and for the rest of the day, he didn't get out of his room. He studied his books (it was probably the first and only time he would open A History of Magic), he packed his trunk in advance, just so he could arrange everything and touch it and stare at it for a moment longer, and he sat by the caged tawny owl his mother had bought for him. He'd name it Bertie; it was the name of his mother's brother, who had died in the Second Wizarding War ten years ago. He was already scratching behind its ears and talking to it. The owl stared at him with wide eyes and John was so happy, he couldn't wait until it was the first of September.
Sherlock inspected his wand; sycamore and dragon heartstring, twelve and a half inches, unyielding. It felt right to hold it in his hands, it felt warm.
Sherlock smirked; he wasn't on Hogwarts yet, they couldn't expel him from a school he'd never been. He walked around his room and found a small statue of a centaur. He picked it up gingerly and smashed it on the floor. It broke in a thousand pieces and Sherlock chuckled; he'd never liked the hideous Christmas present from Mycroft. He wondered if he'd broken it beyond repair, but then he shook his head; he'd seen his mum fix things way further gone. Sherlock lifted his wand, pointed it at the bits and pieces of marble, and whispered, heart thumping in his throat; 'Reparo.'
The shards moved a bit, but they didn't repair themselves instantly and spotlessly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried again, focusing on a repaired statue in his mind. This time, the bits did repair themselves, latching on the nearest piece without hesitation. Sherlock smiled; he could get used to this.
He turned around, putting his wand on his desk. He grabbed one of his newly purchased books and flung himself on the bed with it, starting to read intently. It was his Potions book, and he found it much more interesting than he'd hoped; there were not only recipes for potions but also information about those potions and their ingredients. Sherlock found himself helplessly intrigued and by midnight he was still reading, researching and occasionally experimenting. His desire to go to Hogwarts was getting stronger the more he read and he couldn't wait for next week.
Sherlock put away his books around three AM and went to sleep thinking of his oncoming journey to the wizarding school. Sherlock smiled; he dreamt happily.
The days flew by, though not as fast as Sherlock had hoped, and he kept himself occupied with reading his new schoolbooks and experimenting with his wand. But finally, the day arrived; September first, the day that the Hogwarts Express would leave platform 9¾. The Holmes family could hardly use Floo Powder in this case an Apparition was also out of the question, so they had to rely on their butler's driving skills to get them to King's Cross. Once there, they dumped everything on a trolley and they went for platforms nine and ten. Mycroft pushed his trolley forward silently and took big, pompous steps towards the fence separating the two platforms. Since Sherlock had waved Mycroft off before, he knew how to get on the platform, but it was his first time with the heavy trolley. It took a bit of manoeuvring but he made it, and the big, shining red train met him when he arrived.
His mother soon followed and she led him to the carriages; Mycroft had already disappeared to find his "assistant", whose name he still hadn't given. Together, they lifted his trunk onto the train and Sherlock went to find an empty compartment, where he put his trunk. He walked back to say goodbye to his mother, who still stood on the platform.
'Take care, Sherlock,' his mother said, giving him a hug. 'Write to me, okay?'
'Yes,' Sherlock said dryly, returning the hug awkwardly. 'As long as you don't write back.'
Mrs Holmes chuckled and let go, smiling as tears formed in her eyes. 'Goodbye. Have fun.'
Sherlock's mouth twitched in what only people close to him would know to be a smile and he raised a hand in goodbye. 'Later, Mum.'
Sherlock went to his compartment, which was still empty except for his trunk, and he sat down, looking through the window, watching the other wizards and witches on the platform. He couldn't deny he felt jealous of all the kids with dads, Muggles or not. He wished he'd had a little more time with his before the Battle took him. But if his father had had to die, he couldn't have thought of a more heroic way than dying while fighting The Dark Lord.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle sounded, cutting through the air and all the Hogwarts students ran for the doors, which were already closing. White smoke surrounded the people on the platform and a few seconds later, the train was moving.
Sherlock stretched himself out on the cushions, preparing for a long ride. He got his books out of his trunk – Hogwarts: A History – and started reading. The book had been updated since the Final Battle of Hogwarts had occurred; now there was an entire chapter devoted to the Battle fought at Hogwarts and won by Harry Potter.
The compartment door opened and Sherlock looked up, mildly irritated. A boy of his age stood half inside the compartment, trunk and owl cage beside him. He looked nervous. 'Can I come in? The rest is full...'
Sherlock nodded and turned his attention back to his book. He crossed his ankles and rested them on his trunk, which was in front of him. The boy hesitated a second longer before dragging his own trunk inside the small compartment, setting the cage with his owl on the sofa opposite Sherlock. He sat down and looked at him and realisation hit him.
'Hey! I remember you,' he said. 'You're... Sherlock, was it? I met you in Diagon Alley.'
Sherlock frowned and looked up, finally recognising the small boy as the same one he'd walked into at Flourish and Blotts. 'John,' he remembered.
John nodded and smiled. 'Yeah. So,' he said, a bit hesitantly. 'What year are you in?'
'This is my first year at Hogwarts, if that's what you mean.' Sherlock's eyes were still on his book.
'Yes,' John said, a bit nervous around the tall, dark haired boy opposite him. 'Me too.'
It stayed quiet after that. John, not being a person enjoying empty silence, tried to make small talk. 'What are you reading?'
'Hogwarts: A History.'
'Any good?'
Sherlock nodded and, to John's utter surprise (and happiness) he said, 'It's about the Final Battle of Hogwarts. Somehow that's always fascinated me. My mother used to tell me stories about it when I was little.'
'Mine did too,' John said. 'I always liked the one about the Triwizard Tournament and the return of Voldemort.'
Sherlock chuckled. 'Yes. That's always been one of my favourites.'
'What are you reading now?' John asked, shifting in his seat to make himself comfortable. He was satisfied with himself – Sherlock had seemed a bit distant and cold, but John had cracked that appearance within minutes.
'About how Severus Snape died,' Sherlock said with a frown. 'No doubt you know of it; during the Final Battle of Hogwarts, Snape was called upon by Lord Voldemort, to meet him in the Shrieking Shack – the demolished house just outside Hogsmeade. Harry and his friends Ron and Hermione went after him in secret, trying to get close to the snake Nagini. But they witnessed a horrible murder; Voldemort thought the Elder Wand belonged to Snape and he let Nagini bite him. And Harry Potter went to talk to him, and it was then that Snape gave him the memories that would ultimately lead him to the Forbidden Forest...'
John was silent; this part of the legend always gave him chills. 'It's actually a beautiful story,' he muttered. 'About love, pain, and loss, and war.' He hesitated. 'My uncle died fighting.'
Sherlock looked at him, his head slightly tilted. 'My dad...' he whispered, closing the book and putting it on the seat next to him.
'I'm sorry,' John said.
'It's okay,' Sherlock told him. 'I don't really know him – I was one year old. I could've talked to him, if we... if we had a moving portrait of him. But we don't.'
'They really move, don't they? The portraits? I'm a half blood, but my mother was always careful around magic stuff. My dad knows, though, but I think Mum is just scared people will notice.'
'They won't,' Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. 'Muggles really believe what they choose to believe. Anyway... I think you might like this...'
Sherlock bent forward, opened his trunk and got out a newspaper. He handed it to John, who took it and grinned; it was The Daily Prophet. He looked through it, the articles, the columns, the moving pictures. 'You're pureblood, then?' he asked lightly, spreading the paper on his knee.
Sherlock nodded. 'Yes. Not the bad kind, mind you. My dad fought the Death Eaters, he wasn't one of them.' His tone was defiant.
'I never said he was,' John said, raising his eyebrows and smiling when he saw Sherlock's nonplussed expression.
'That's not what people normally say.'
'What do they say, then?'
'"Piss off, Death Eater"'.
John chuckled and shook his head. Soon, Sherlock was laughing too; it felt strange, laughing. The sound was foreign to his ears and the feeling of joy was almost new.
'What House do you want to be Sorted in?' He surprised himself by asking.
'I hope it'll be Gryffindor,' John said ponderingly. 'My mum was in there. I know that nowadays even Slytherins can be quite okay, but if it isn't Gryffindor I think I'd be quite disappointed...'
'I understand... sort of,' Sherlock said, looking at John with bright eyes. 'My entire family's been in Ravenclaw, but I'm not sure I want to be. I'd like to avoid my brother,' he said with a smirk, but John sensed that there was something more that bothered him. 'Ravenclaws are expected to be the best, to get the highest grades. I don't want that, I could care less about studying. I hope to end up in Gryffindor, too...' he said softly.
'Well, let's not worry about it too much, eh?' John said lightly, trying to lift his new friend's spirits. 'I think I can hear the food trolley.'
He was right; moments later, the old woman pushing the food trolley came by, asking; 'Anything from the trolley, dears?'
John, who hadn't had much of the wizarding sweets other than the few, bright times in his childhood that his mum could bring some home with her, bought at least one of almost everything. Sherlock looked at him from under his eyebrows when he loaded the stuff on the sofa next to him.
'You want some?' John asked him, holding out a Chocolate Frog.
Sherlock simply looked at the little blue box and muttered, 'Transport.'
'Sorry?' John said, throwing him the Frog. Sherlock caught it without looking at it and put it down again.
'Transport, John. I only eat when I am not occupied.'
'Well, you're not.'
Sherlock raised one eyebrow, thought for a moment, and then said softly; 'Good point.' Slowly, he picked up the box again, opened it and took the small Frog between his thumb and index finger. He studied the struggling thing with an amused look before he bit off its head, chewing with a satisfied grin.
John followed his example. 'Occupied with what, if I may ask?'
'Work.'
'I kind of figured.'
Sherlock sighed. 'Okay, it may sound silly to you, but that's because you're ordinary. No, don't look like that,' he added hastily when John raised an eyebrow, insulted. 'Practically everyone is.'
'And you're not?'
'Well, no. What I do, it's called deduction. I observe and I deduce from the things I see. It's very useful in most situations. Let's take you, for example... You've already told me an awful lot, but I can still deduce that you've got a younger sister named Harriet, you're worried about your father – possibly because he is a Muggle, more likely because he's recently made a huge gamble concerning his work. Your mother bought you that owl because she is concerned about you, she wants you to stay in touch with her and she wants you to have company should you need it.'
John's mouth hung open. 'Hell, I don't even know half of that,' he said, a smile creeping onto his face. 'That's brilliant! But – how in Merlin's name could you have deduced that just by looking at me?'
Sherlock smiled and began explaining. 'Your trunk; you've opened it a few minutes ago to get your money. I could see a letter on top of your clothing, written by a girlish but sloppy handwriting. Must be a sister, unless you're very good friends with a younger girl, or you have a close relationship with a cousin of yours, but since your uncle died in battle that would be unlikely, since you'd have mentioned her. So, sister it is. Now, your father – when I mentioned mine, you frowned and reacted as though it was personal for you. We've just met, so that isn't possible. It must be about your own father, then. Your mother is a witch and you're a half blood, which means that your father is a Muggle. I can just tell by the look on your face that you're worried about him, whenever certain subjects pass by you think about him, such as work. And lastly, why your mother bought you that owl; it's quite obvious, why else do mothers buy their children a pet which can deliver letters?'
It took a few seconds for John's brain to catch up. When it did, his grin only broadened. 'Merlin's beard, Sherlock! That was...'
'A bit not good?' Sherlock asked, suddenly unsure.
'Fantastic,' John breathed. 'Absolutely fantastic!'
Sherlock smiled again – no one had ever called his deductions "fantastic". He nodded to the pile of sweets next to John and grinned. 'Every Flavour Beans, then?'
'Sure,' John said, opening one of the few boxes containing the beans. He'd only had one of these before, and the experience had been odd, to say the least. Some were delicious; chocolate, cherry, blueberry or vanilla, but there were also a few that he found absolutely disgusting; liver, black pepper, sausage, dirt... There were endless flavours, and it didn't just go by box.
Sherlock went to sit next to him so they could eat together. John stuck his hand inside the box and grabbed a handful of the tiny snacks. He held it out to Sherlock, who decidedly picked a rich brown one. John chose a red one – always safe, he reckoned – and together they took their medicine.
Both immediately coughed, laughing loudly at the other's red face.
'What did you get?' John asked Sherlock as soon as they were done laughing and scraping the horrible flavour off their taste buds.
'Cinnamon,' Sherlock said. 'Can be quite nice but not in these quantities...' He coughed again. 'You?' he asked with watering eyes.
'I'm not sure... It tasted a bit like iron. Oh, God – I think it was blood!'
Both started laughing again and they picked another bean. This time, Sherlock was successful; he picked green apple. John was not so lucky; he had to make do with cardboard.
They enjoyed themselves quite nicely with the Every Flavour Beans, but soon it began to grow darker as they drove further up north. Sherlock suggested they get into their uniform and they dressed quickly, cleaning up all the sticky sweets from between the cushions of the sofa. Sherlock had seen his mother do a quick cleaning spell about a thousand times and he tried to imitate it, but as it was usually nonverbal he wasn't very lucky.
They gathered all their things and walked out when the train jolted to a halt, emerging on a small platform in Hogsmeade. A loud voice boomed over the heads of the students, attracting attention from all the first-years.
'First-years, 'ere! This way, first-years!'
Sherlock and John looked at each other with a smile before dropping off their things and walking towards the half giant. Rubeus Hagrid was waving his arms, gathering the first-years in one big group in front of him. Sherlock and John waited patiently for all the others to join them and then Hagrid set off, humming happily under his breath and pointing out all the things around them, like ancient trees and shops in Hogsmeade.
After walking for a while they came at the bank of a lake – the Black Lake. Sherlock could see dozens of small boats floating in the black water over the faint light of Hagrid's torch.
'Get in, yeh lot! We wouldn't want yer to waste time, now don't we?'
And so they got in; Sherlock and John shared a boat with a small boy, dark haired and Irish by the sound of his accent, and a girl with dark skin and wild, black, curly hair. It took a while before anything happened – Sherlock was looking at the water, ignoring the beautiful stars, looking for the giant squid. But when they rounded a corner, a brilliant light came into view; they were the torches and the windows of the castle of Hogwarts.
John gaped; Sherlock gaped; all the students looked at the massive building in awe. Seeing it on pictures was nothing like seeing it in real life.
'Take a good look!' Hagrid bellowed. 'Yeh'll not be seein' it like this again!'
The boats reached the other end of the lake and the students climbed out, following Hagrid who showed the way up the winding path upwards, lighted by dozens of torches. Eventually, they reached the stone porch and Hagrid instructed the kids to stay behind him when he knocked on the oak front doors.
It stayed eerily silent for a while, but then the doors opened, revealing a man in his mid-twenties, wearing simple robes.
Neville Longbottom looked better than ever when he greeted the new first-years.
'Come in! Let's get you Sorted!'
Author's Note: #Edit; We've deleted a few bits about Sherlock talking to his dad in the study... That never happened. More on this in later A/Ns.
We have based the wand woods on the actual list of woods from Pottermore. JK Rowling (who is the most magnificent woman in the entire universe) wrote it from Ollivander's point of view. Here are the Cedar's (John's) and Sycamore's (Sherlock's.)
We hope you liked the story so far! Leave us some love. :)
Cedar
Whenever I meet one who carries a cedar wand, I find strength of character and unusual loyalty. My father, Gervaise Ollivander, used always to say, 'you will never fool the cedar carrier,' and I agree: the cedar wand finds its perfect home where there is perspicacity and perception. I would go further than my father, however, in saying that I have never yet met the owner of a cedar wand whom I would care to cross, especially if harm is done to those of whom they are fond. The witch or wizard who is well-matched with cedar carries the potential to be a frightening adversary, which often comes as a shock to those who have thoughtlessly challenged them.
Sycamore
The sycamore makes a questing wand, eager for new experience and losing brilliance if engaged in mundane activities. It is a quirk of these handsome wands that they may combust if allowed to become 'bored,' and many witches and wizards, settling down into middle age, are disconcerted to find their trusty wand bursting into flame in their hand as they ask it, one more time, to fetch their slippers. As may be deduced, the sycamore's ideal owner is curious, vital and adventurous, and when paired with such an owner, it demonstrates a capacity to learn and adapt that earns it a rightful place among the world's most highly-prized wand woods.