John awkwardly made his way through the station, feeling extremely out of place. It didn't help that he was travelling alone—his mom only had enough time to drop him off before she had to return to work—but the fact that he was pushing a heavy cart overflowing with books, clothing, and supplies topped off with a large suitcase made everything immensely more embarrassing for him. He was glad that he didn't have any animals with him, though the letter had said that he could choose to bring an owl, cat, or a frog. He was a bit overwhelmed as he tried to make his way through the crowds, his cart bumping into dozens of people who glared at him for the obtrusion. He anxiously looked at the signs, passing by platform 9 and hopefully headed towards nine and three quarters. He continued forwards, thinking that he might have passed it, when overhead he saw platform 10.

He muttered under his breath, upset that he would have to turn around and make his way back, knowing that he must have passed it. He apologized as he bumped into a few people in his attempts to turn around against the flow and force his way back the way he came. His eye caught a lone boy sitting beside a tall brick column calmly poking the wall with a stick. He looked to be about his age, eleven or twelve, with dark hair that hung in curls around his head, his skin extremely pale with wide eyes and high cheekbones. His body was noticeably very slim as he sat cross legged, his sole attention focused on the wall in front of him.

Curious, John ambled his way closer to the boy, slowly easing his cart through the crowd of people into an empty opening surrounding the boy. The boy didn't even glance back though John knew the noise he had made upon his entrance was monumental. Instead, he just pressed his stick closer to the wall.

John blinked in surprise as the stick suddenly melted into the wall like butter, completely disappearing all the way up to the hilt, merely inches from the boy's fingers. The dark haired boy withdrew the stick and peered at it curiously as he reached into his trouser pockets with his hand. He pulled out a coin from his pocket and turned his attention back to the wall, and then with a flick of his wrist he tossed the coin at the same place where his stick had melted through moments before. With a clink the coin made contact with the bricks, not sinking in like the stick had, and then fell to rattle against the floor.

The boy looked disappointed as he picked up the coin and focused intently before tossing it again, only to the same result. John was stunned, unsure if he had imagined the stick melting through the wall or not. Then again, he had just been recently told that he was a wizard, so he supposed that anything was possible. With a start he suddenly realized that the stick the boy was holding was a wand. He cursed himself for his stupidity, though he had only just gotten his own wand a week before he really should have figured it out sooner. The strange boy in front of the wall must be a wizard, maybe he was even going to the same school as he was. If so, he would probably know where platform nine and three-quarters was.

John edged forwards, leaving his cart behind him as he approached the boy who was still tossing his coin at the wall, each time the coin clinking to the floor.

"S'cuse me," he stated hesitantly, the boy completely ignoring him. "D'you know where platform nine and three quarters is?"

The boy gave an insufferable, drawn out sigh and scooped off the coin from the floor before ambling to his feet. He disdainfully wiped off his trousers and returned his coin to his pocket before turning to face John.

"Yes," the tall boy responded curtly, his blue and green-tinged eyes taking in John's appearance. John wanted to cower from the close scrutiny, but instead he stood with his back straight, trying to make himself seem bigger as the dark haired boy towered over him.

"Could you tell me where it is?" John asked as bravely as he could, feeling extremely inadequate compared to the tall boy in front of him. Obviously the boy already knew had to use magic—he had a wand and had pressed it through a brick wall. He was also very obviously wealthy; his starched white shirt buttoned up to his chin, a loose silver tie hanging loosely around his neck. His suit pants were as black as his hair and he had on leather dress shoes as well, his outfit practically screaming his affluence.

In comparison John was wearing old hand-me-downs from garage sales and cheap retail stores, his shoes scuffed and falling apart from wear. He was also several inches shorter than the boy, and completely oblivious as to where the platform could possibly be. Regardless of his inferiority John stubbornly stood as proud as he could, his chest puffed out in determination.

The boy raised an eyebrow at him, his long fingers curling around the wand he held in his hand. He then glanced over towards John's cart, his eyes expertly skimming over everything. "I could," he responded, his voice surprisingly deep, "though I'd rather not."

It took John a moment to realize that he had answered his question, and once he did he bristled in anger. "Why not?" he asked, infuriated with the boy's obvious display of disdain towards him.

The boy smirked in response, making John to clench his hands in frustration. "I could just show you," he stated, eyeing John's clenched fists.

"Oh," John replied dumbly, quickly diffusing all of his anger. He knew that he angered much too easily and was embarrassed by his heated reaction; he was not making a great first impression.

"Bring your cart," the boy said before promptly turning away from him to face the wall once more. He walked forwards, about to crash into the wall, when he suddenly passed through the bricks and disappeared. John gaped at the now empty space the boy had once inhabited, melting through the wall just like his wand had. He glanced all around him, looking to see if anyone had noticed the sudden disappearance of the boy that had been there moments before, but the people continued to pass by—completely oblivious.

Stunned, John walked back to his cart and gripped the handle tightly. Did the boy expect him to go walking into the wall after him, cart and all? Certainly he would just crash and bring even more unwanted attention to himself. However, he was a wizard now, and he just witnessed the boy pass through the wall, so maybe he could too. He stared at the brick wall in determination.

He was a wizard now, he repeated to himself, and he was going to prove that fact by passing through a brick wall. He took in a deep breath of air and moved forwards into a jog, the wall frightening close. He sprinted the last bit and shut his eyes tight, expecting to suddenly slam headfirst into the harsh bricks.

Instead, he felt nothing. Knowing that he must have made it through the wall by now, he opened his eyes to look around and came to a sudden halt—his surroundings completely different. He appeared to be in the same train station, but the structure was the only similarity. A gleaming train rested proudly on the tracks, its engine letting out a big plume of smoke. People wearing a mix between robes and regular clothes milled about and he saw several kids his age pushing around identical looking carts. He searched the crowds for the tall boy he had seen earlier, but he was nowhere in sight.

He began making his way where he saw several of his fellow students milling about entrance of the train, his eyes opened wide as he watched the many witches and wizards around him. He felt as completely out of his league as when he had taken his mother with him to go shopping in the strange world beyond the Leaky Cauldron.

His mother had blanched and grown queasy at the sight of so much magic around her as she had never seen it before—being a muggle, and had grown tight lipped as she realized that they would be able to purchase a very few amount of supplies after trading in her meager amount of muggle money for an equally small amount of magical currency. Luckily she had been able to sign a paper that would get the school to fund for books and supplies, but she still had to pay for his robes and wand, leaving John aware of how destitute they really were.

He had chosen the cheapest robes he could find in order to help ease his mother's burden, which hadn't gone unnoticed as she watched him with weary eyes but remaining silent on his choice. After getting all of the supplies they needed for school; books, parchment, quills (seriously, do the wizards still live in the seventeenth century or something?) their last stop was to Ollivander's for wands.

Once John had arrived into the shop the old man—Ollivander himself—his white hair sticking out crazily on all ends, inspected him closely before scurrying into the back and returning carrying a dusty box. He placed it on the desk in front of him and tenderly lifted the lid to reveal a honey brown wand, stout and short but absolutely gleaming. John had fallen in love in sight, reveling in the fact that he was going to get his own wand. As soon as he picked up the polished wood a warmth spread through his hand up his arm as the wand maker smiled appreciatively.

"Eight inches, birch wood, single strand of unicorn hair, and extremely durable with little flexibility," the old man had stated; John's taking in the information as his attention remained riveted on the beautiful piece of wood he held in between his fingers. He continued to gleam in admiration towards his new wand as his mother quietly conversed with Ollivander, her skin growing even paler as she took in the amount. He had seen her reaction, but he stubbornly refused to part with his wand though he knew that it probably cost more than his mom was willing, or even capable, of giving. She had sullenly handed over the last of her coins, and though they wouldn't be able to get some of that magical ice cream she had promised or buy anything else while they were there, John knew that his wand was worth the cost.

He had kept his wand at his side for the rest of the week, openly admiring it by sliding his fingers over the smooth and polished length several times throughout the days. Even now his wand was secure in his back pocket as he made his way towards the train, taking out his heavy baggage from his cart and stepping onto the shining black and red painted train.

He made his way down the narrow hallways and passed by countless compartments filled with students. He dragged his heavy suitcase behind him, stopping to peer into the doors as he searched for an open seat.

He must not have realized how late he was when he saw that most of the train was full. He suddenly heard the scream of the engine's whistle announcing its approaching departure; he glanced at his watch and saw that it was 10:58 and the bus was going to leave in two minutes. He picked up his pace, anxiously looking into the filled compartments and finding himself all the way at the back of the train.

He glanced into a compartment that had three boys in it—leaving room for one more—each of them appeared to be his age and they were all laughing and chatting to each other. He knew that he would probably be accepted into their group, but something told him to keep going on. Following his instincts and figuring that if he didn't find another room he could just double back, he continued forwards to look into the very last compartment on the train.

At first he thought it was completely empty, until he peered closer and could see a lanky boy laying across one of the seats, an arm placed over his face, the other seat completely empty. Taking his chance, and enjoying the fact that he would have a lot more space in a room with just two people than with four, he opened the door to the compartment.

"Get out," the boy stated rudely, his voice familiar. John hadn't recognized the boy before because he was now wearing black wizarding robes, but once hearing his voice he recognized him as the boy who had passed through the wall.

John stubbornly stepped into the room, dragging his suitcase behind him and clinging tightly to his stack of books. He was upset that the boy had left him in the dust when it was apparent that John had no idea where to go after passing through the wall, but he was grateful that he had at least shown him how or else he would have never figured it out.

"I said get out!" the boy reiterated, rolling over and uncovering his face. When he caught sight of John he steeled his gaze and pursed his lips before turning away from him and curling up on his seat, facing the wall.

Satisfied that the boy wasn't going to chase him out, John placed his suitcase and books on the rack above their heads and sat down in the seat across from the pale boy who was now childishly lying curled up—just in time for the train's whistle to emanate all around them as wheels began to move across the tracks.

The room remained in silence as the train picked up pace, the boy ignoring him all the while. Feeling awkward and wanting to at least thank the boy for helping him onto the platform, John tried to start a conversation.

"Thanks," John began. "For helping me out, I mean." The boy remained silent and didn't even acknowledge hearing him. "On the platform," he continued, trying to get a response. Silence.

John turned his head out the window to stare at the smiling families who remained on the platform, waving goodbye to the Hogwarts Express. He gazed longingly, getting the foolish desire of seeing his family wave goodbye to him.

Of course that would never happen, his mom had to work to support herself and her two kids, his dad long since been gone out of the picture. His older sister Harriet had taken to calling herself Harry and hanging out with less than honorable people, delving into drug addictions though she was still only a teenager. They had never been close, not really, and he doubted that she would even care that he would be gone.

He glanced back at the boy who remained obstinately facing the wall, pretending to be asleep. John knew that he couldn't possibly have fallen asleep yet, making him angry again because he was being so disrespectful.

"My name is John," he stated, trying, and failing, to get a reaction.

He stared out the window once more, watching as the station faded out of sight and instead the scenery of grass expanding over rolling hills came into view. He occupied himself by staring out the window and figuring out what his new life was going to be like.

He had learned that he was a wizard only two months ago. A cream colored letter had suddenly flown in through the front door, and John could have sworn that he had seen an owl fly away as he peered out the window—no one who could have possibly dropped off the letter was in sight. He had read the spindly green ink and had shown it to his mom when she returned home exhausted from work, his mouth dry. She had read the letter, and instead of looking proud or astonished, she had been angry.

She began to curse his father vehemently, her face turning red with rage and blaming her husband for all of the problems she was now faced with. That's when he learned that his father had secretly been a wizard—keeping the truth away from his family. John was surprised at her reaction; she hadn't talked about his father for years, and he had never known that she had such a deep hatred for him.

She had continued to rant for quite some time, pacing around and shoving things off of the counter; John solemnly standing in place and watching his mother scream in frustration, unsure of what to do. Eventually she had grown tired and sank to the floor. His heart rent into two as he watched her hold her head into her hands, the letter falling from between her fingers. Then she had broken down and cried, shocking John and deeply scaring him by her bipolar reactions. She cried about losing John; the two men in her life leaving her because of magic.

He had tried to soothe her, sitting by her side and consolidatedly patting her shoulder, their relationship unused to physical touch. She had cried for over an hour, eventually tiring herself out and falling asleep on his shoulder. John had been utterly frightened the entire time. He had just learned that he was a wizard, explaining some of the strange things that had happened in his life, and all of the emotions he had felt at the time were so overwhelming.

Over the next two months, the time ever growing closer to the omnipresent date of September 1st looming over their heads—the date when John would board the Hogwarts Express and leave his mother and older sister and head into a different world—they had both grown accustomed to the idea of John being a wizard. At first his mother had abhorrently rejected the idea, but John had felt that Hogwarts was the path that he had wanted to take, so she had slowly relented and eased into the idea.

Their goodbye had been brief. His mother's face was pale and listless as she planted a kiss to his head outside of the station and then turned to leave, neither of them uttering a word.

His attention was suddenly brought back to the present when he felt eyes on him. He turned away from the window and was stunned to see the boy sitting up cross legged in his seat and openly staring at him. John blinked in surprise—he hadn't heard the boy get up—and instead of turning away from the intense gaze he returned it. The staring continued and the tips of John's ears began growing warm as the time progressed.

"Hi," he said dumbly, breaking the silence. The boy arched an eyebrow at him, not taking his eyes away. "Sorry, it's just we haven't actually been properly introduced yet," he explained, stretching forth his hand.

The boy eyed his gesture warily and kept his hands in his lap. John brought back his hand and crossed his arms. "You know, you're being extremely rude. I don't even know your name and we've been sitting here for—" he glanced at his watch, "nearly an hour." He eyed the lanky boy and clenched his jaw, determined to get an answer.

"What time is it?" the boy asked.

It was the first thing he said to him since the train started moving. "Uh," John responded dumbly, checking his watch again.

"Just give it to me," the boy said, outstretching his arm.

"It's a quarter to twelve," John said, wondering why he would have to give his watch over.

The boy persisted, opening his palm. Finally John relented, unclipping his watch from his wrist and handing it over.

The boy fiddled with the watch in his long fingers. He didn't even look at the time, instead flipped it over and peered at it in all directions. Without warning he suddenly tossed it to John, apparently disinterested by it.

"Hey!" John shouted as he barely caught the watch. He glared at the boy as he slid it back on his wrist. "Who do you think you are?" he asked with a snarl, outraged by the boy's behavior.

The boy sighed and looked away, laying his back down on the seat and sticking his legs into the air to rest on the windowpane.

"Sherlock Holmes," he suddenly muttered, withdrawing his wand from his seat and fiddling with it between his long fingers.

"What?" John asked, his attention drawn to the same wand he had seen the boy press through the brick wall. It was long and dark, much thinner than his own. He was surprised at how flexible it was as the boy bent and twiddled it to the point of breaking before letting it fling back into place.

"My. Name. Is. Sherlock. Holmes," the boy said, his voice full of irritation.

"Oh," John responded stupidly. It was an odd name, but then again, the boy was also very strange. The name was fitting; it was as annoying and weird as the boy was.

"So—" John drawled, now that Sherlock had finally opened up he was determined to try to make small talk with him. "What were you doing in front of the brick wall—the platform, I mean."

"Experimenting."

"Experimenting what?" John asked.

Sherlock gave an aggrandized sigh, very similar to the first noise he had heard the boy make. "If you're going to bother me with questions, at least make sure that they make grammatical sense."

John clenched his jaw, embarrassed and upset. "What exactly were you experimenting on, and why?" he stated slowly, making sure his question was proper.

"I was testing the extents of the spell on the wall. It's common knowledge that to pass through the platform you have to be moving swiftly with an intent to pass through, and if you wish to take anything with you through the passageway one must be in contact with said object." Sherlock flicked his hair out of his eyes with the tip of his wand. "I was testing to see how slow one could move and still be able to pass through, and whether or not an object could pass through without being physically connected to a wizard."

"Why would you want to know that?" John asked, incredulous.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side to peer at him. "Why wouldn't I want to know? It's fascinating—and this knowledge might prove useful in the future."

John scoffed. "I don't see how knowing whether or not a coin will pass through the brick wall will be beneficial to you in the future."

Sherlock shut his eyes and rolled his head back to the neutral position. "Perhaps not," he stated, much to John's shock; John had expected Sherlock to retort with some type of brilliant reason why knowing everything about the platform was so pertinent. "If it doesn't prove to be useful I'll just delete it from my mind," he stated, slipping his wand back into the sleeve of his robe.

"Delete it from your mind?!" John asked, wondering if that was something every wizard could do. If that were the case, he had quite a few things he would like to delete permanently from his memory...

"Hmm, yes. Do I really need to repeat myself or are you just particularly thick?" Sherlock said snidefully.

John bristled with rage. "I'm not thick!" he retorted. "I'm just... new to magic."

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled.

John felt his face flame up as he clenched his fists in anger, embarrassed that it was so apparent that he didn't belong there.

"Besides," Sherlock continued, his eyes still closed, "the way I delete my memories doesn't require magic. Instead it is done through careful and thorough thought examination that requires intense focus."

"Right, because you're a bloody genius," John said sarcastically, hating the way Sherlock automatically assumed to be better than him, though he didn't outright state it. It was obvious by the way he had ignored him for nearly an entire hour and then continued to make degrading remarks towards him.

"Yes," he agreed, steepling his fingers together and resting them under his chin.

"Oh, so you're a bloody genius because you can forget things on command and throw coins at walls. How original," John insulted, feeling like he had finally gotten the upper hand on their conversation.

Sherlock swiftly sat up in his seat, his nostrils flaring as he glared at John. "You recently learned that you were a wizard, growing up in a muggle family your entire life," he began to rant, his voice coming out low and extremely rapid. "You play rugby and though you are short and slight in stature you have proven yourself to be very good at it, and you have a desire to someday be a professional player—your grades at your muggle school are average but you worked hard for them in order to make your mother proud—your muggle mother spends most of her time at work, and you haven't seen your father for years." He paused for a quick intake of air before continuing.

"You have an older sister but you've never been close to her—she's a disgrace to the family and has probably delved into addictive drugs and could possibly be lesbian. Ever since she learned that you were a wizard—while she remains a pitiable muggle—the gap between the two of you has grown even larger with resentment." He ended with a huff, his sentences all running together as his eyes flashed.

John gaped at him, completely stunned. "That was incredible," he found himself stating, though the first thing on his mind was to punch the boy's smug looking face and possibly bruise one of those high cheekbones. He couldn't help but to be impressed by his quick deductions, each one of his statements stabbing him with deadly accuracy.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, not expecting a positive reaction. "Really?" he asked tentatively, his expression almost looking remorseful.

"Was that magic?" John asked, staring at the boy in open wonder. It had to be magic, he thought to himself; Sherlock must have used a spell that told him his entire personal life.

Immediately the remorseful look completely disappeared from his face to be replaced with frustration with a twinge of hurt pride. "No," Sherlock responded haughtily, looking offended. "I had drawn those conclusions through careful observations and deductive reasoning." He crossed his arms over his slender chest and stared out the window, his jaw clenched.

"How?" John asked, wondering how anyone could possibly know that much about him without the use of magic.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I just told you—through observation and deduction. It's really quite simple."

Put off by his derogatory tone, John retorted: "Oh, yes, right, simple. If it's so simple, you aren't really that much of a genius then."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed with brutal intensity as he glared at John. "Simple for me," he replied menacingly.

John clenched his jaw. "Show me."

Sherlock glared at him for a minute or two longer. "It's apparent that you are new to the wizarding world because of the way you look around you as if you are astonished by everything. I reasoned that you are muggle born because you had no idea where the platform was, so there was no family with previous experience to tell you, though there is a slight chance that they might have gone to another wizarding school."

John wrinkled his nose—he hadn't known there were other schools besides Hogwarts.

Reading his expression, Sherlock continued: "Obviously not. I know that you play rugby by the state of your trainers, which are covered in grass stains that might have been due to football, but on close examination of your suitcase I noticed that you have crudely drawn a rugby ball next to some initials—which I presume to be the initials of a popular rugby team; showing that you are interested in the sport and like most eleven year old boys you aim to have a career in the sport.

"I could tell that your muggle grades were just average based on the state of your books; you haven't even opened them up once—showing that you are not studious—yet they are well cared for—showing that you esteem education highly but don't take the time to study and as a result you must have average grades."

John glanced at his suitcase on the rack and the pile of schoolbooks next to it. They were tied together neatly, and he had done his best to keep them neat. Sherlock continued, not missing a beat.

"You arrived alone, so you only have a single parent, which I took to be your mother because I saw her kiss you farewell—and that's not cheating, it's merely observing. I know you have an older sister because your clothes are hand-me-downs but not from within your family as each article of clothing is from completely different geographical areas. You can't wear your sister's old clothes but you do have her watch, which is fine because it's an omnisexual watch. An artifact like that must have been handed down through your family as your mother wouldn't have enough funds to pay for something like that—so it must have been a gift to your older sister who eventually passed it on to you. You take good care of your things but the watch is scratched and scarred, showing that it belonged to someone ahead of you—your sister—whom I know must be a muggle and therefore would be jealous of your capabilities, and your talents would cause a strain in your relationship, but you still wear her watch so her resentment must not be anything new and you've grown accustomed to it." He finally finished his explanation, his expression once again looking smug.

John didn't know what to think. He was completely dumbfounded. He sat in silence for a moment or two. Now that Sherlock explained his reasoning behind his deductions, it really did sound simple.

"How did you know that my sister does drugs or might play for the other team?" John finally managed to ask.

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and shrugged. "You've grown up mostly alone, obvious by the way that you were willing to go through the train station without any companion, so your sister must not have been around much. She must not be too many years older than you, so she must have forced herself away from the house or was otherwise estranged by her mother, probably resulting from unsavory habits and poor company. I merely guessed her sexual tendencies from your watch, though I must say that I went out on a limb on that one."

"My watch?" John asked, dumbfounded.

"So I was right? She's a dyke?" Sherlock asked eagerly, steepling his hands beneath his chin.

"Um, yeah," John affirmed though he was slightly affronted by his insulting term. "But how could you tell from my watch?"

A smug smile spread over Sherlock's bow like lips. "It's omnisexual," he stated proudly.

John chuckled, incredulous. "That was... amazing."