Sherlock Holmes was quite pleased to return to Hogwarts after a lengthy summer holiday. Although, that wasn't to say he didn't have a lovely break. His parents had wasted no expense, feeding into his every whim to indulge in adventure. He found his days and weeks filled with interesting books of history and spells, potion making, a three-week holiday through Japan and China to admire dragons, his occasional muggle mystery novel, and of course, responding to letters from John and Molly with as few words as necessary.
But his poor, dear school mates. John, his half-blood best mate, was forced to remain at home with his sister and aging grandmum for most of the summer, his only entertainment surely being his broom and letter correspondence with his girlfriend, Mary.
Sherlock presumed that Molly had it even worse. His quiet, studious friend was a muggle-born, and was likely forced to partake in their dreadful activities: football, watching a technology called the telly, and cooking by hand to name a few.
Of course, he would too have preferred being forced to play muggle football over the countless suppers he shared with his older brother, Mycroft. Now at twenty-five, his older brother was slowly climbing the ranks at the Ministry, and claimed to rarely have time for his family. But, with Sherlock enjoying his last true summer break from school, Mycroft had been acquiesced into dropping by his childhood home every Sunday over the period.
While his parents were delighted to share a meal with both of their precious sons, Sherlock found the dinners to be exercises in patience and politics. Because every word of Mycroft's was shrouded in a self-important smugness that set every nerve of Sherlock's on edge.
Yet, between his endless babbling about ministry affairs, his upcoming promotion, and his former classmates who were nowhere near his level of success, Mycroft's final conversation with the family was the only thing on Sherlock's mind, this breezy September morning.
Somehow, between another proud smirk, Mycroft managed to shove a piece of treacle tart between his lips. He swallowed the pudding with a groan of delight, before focusing his attention on Sherlock.
"Now, little brother, this is quite the important year. I hope you have your priorities in line," Mycroft began, smiling as their parents nodded along in vigorous agreement.
"I hope you've decided on your N.E.W.T.s, dear. The choices you make now will help you determine your future career," His mother added, casually filling Sherlock's plate with another helping of treacle tart. She was always nagging him to eat more.
He rolled his eyes and immediately rattled off his choices, used to getting the same sort of motherly attention from John, Molly, and Mary on a daily basis.
"Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Potions. Satisfied?" He quipped, eating a forkful of the dessert. He groaned. He did have to admit that his mum was a wonderful cook. Even better than the Hogwarts house elves.
His father raised an eyebrow. "Really, now? Seven? We don't want you pushing yourself too hard. To join the ministry, like your brother, you only need—"
Sherlock scowled and ate another forkful. "Mycroft got six, so I shall get seven. And I have absolutely no interest in following his path. I've decided I want to be an Auror."
Mycroft just rolled his eyes and helped himself to more tart. "Well, as charming as that sentiment is, I actually was not referring to your N.E.W.T.s as your first priority."
That got everyone's attention.
"Oh?" Sherlock questioned, taking a hefty sip of pumpkin juice, "Then what, dearest brother, is?"
"I presume you are a prefect again this year."
Sherlock snorted. "Yes. Although, Flitwick did threaten to take away my badge if I didn't stop sneaking into the potions classroom after hours. And experimenting on frogs. He was not a fan of that after I accidently killed Phillip Anderson's pet."
Mycroft made a noise of agreement. "I see. Well, then surely you know what this year determines. Your behavior will decide if you will be named Head Boy next year."
Sherlock froze, his goblet in front of his lips, considering his brother's words. Head Boy? Of course, he had considered the position before. Mycroft had held the role during his seventh year, and this year, Sherlock's casual mate Greg Lestrade had the badge.
He finally sipped his drink, his eyes locked on Mycroft. "My behavior?"
His brother scoffed. "Only one boy is picked from all the seventh-year students, and I highly doubt you're the only male prefect with stellar grades. If you want the position, you're going to need to be on your best behavior. Make a good impression."
Mycroft sipped his pumpkin juice and smiled, "You aren't exactly likable, dearest Sherlock."
That had him scowling. Sherlock continued his glaring. "Please. I'll be picked. I'm clearly the best choice."
The git had the nerve to smirk. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. And even if that were true, many things can change over the course of a school year."
And before Sherlock could give Mycroft a nasty retort, his father brought up some old Death Eater being tried by the Ministry, and Mycroft was back to boasting about his career.
He scowled and leaned his head back against the soft cushion of the train compartment, enjoying his last few moments of silence. While he did enjoy the company of his friends, he found much comfort in reading a history book with his owl, Redbeard, perched on his shoulder.
But he couldn't help thinking… Was Mycroft right? Should he be concerned about the eventual decision on Head Boy? Sherlock had been facing significant scrutiny for his antics the past few years, and was himself surprised when he received his Prefect badge by post. He figured that McGonagall and Flitwick liked him much against their own better judgement, and he had no qualms in exploiting that.
But Sherlock knew one thing. He would not be beat. If Mycroft had worn the Head Boy badge during his seventh year, then so too would Sherlock.
He would make sure of it.
And just as he prepared to shut his eyes, enjoying the slight pressure of Redbeard's body on his shoulder, the carriage door slid open. Endless chatter filtered in.
"Then Harriet got in trouble for bringing that bloke from Slytherin, Jeremy Hallstatt, over. I gave him a black eye when he put a hand on her!" John announced, his chest puffed out in his pride of his basic male instincts.
From behind him, his girlfriend Mary rolled her eyes. "John, as if I believe you punched Jeremy. He's got four inches on you."
He scowled. "Alright, fine. I didn't give him a shiner. But I certainly let him know my feelings."
Sherlock looked over at his friends, desperately trying to hold back a small smile. He hadn't seen them in months, and even he had to admit that he was delighted to get back into the rhythm of things.
When he first started at Hogwarts, he was by no means a social child. He grew up in the shadows of perfect Mycroft, desperately trying to make a name for himself. Eleven-year old Sherlock had been convinced that the only way to success was to excel past everyone beside him. And, as competition goes, there was room for only one on top.
Suffice to say, he had made it into almost November before he really made a friend. He had been placed in Ravenclaw, a natural house for his studious, wise, and knowledge-hungry person, and had kept to himself. But on Halloween, and an incident with two ghosts, a naughty painting, a rogue frog from the choir, and Filch's cat Mrs. Norris, Sherlock had wound up in detention.
And when he entered the cold dungeon, prepared to sit through whatever Professor Slughorn had in mind, he was greeted by a friendly, short Gryffindor named John Watson. Upon discovering that Watson had been punished for attempting to sneak into a forbidden corridor, Sherlock knew he had found his friend.
He was quite satisfied with just one friend. That was all he really needed. One friend to eat with, confide in, complain to, and occasionally go on amateur cases in the castle. However, by December of his first year, Sherlock realized that while his Gryffindor mate would be suitable outside of lessons, he would need a Ravenclaw friend—someone he could depend on in the classroom.
That was perhaps Sherlock's first quest at the school. He carefully considered each of the twenty-five Ravenclaw first-years, eventually settling on Molly Hooper as his selected friend. She was quite nice, incredibly intelligent, and spent most of her free time with her nose buried in a book, huddled away in a corner of the library.
Over the course of the subsequent four and a half years, Sherlock grew to genuinely enjoy Molly's company and friendship. She had quite a morbid sense of humor, which he deeply enjoyed, and although she occasionally stuttered in his presence, he knew no one was perfect.
And sometime within their completed five years, Mary Morstan, another Gryffindor, had come along, switching their trio to a foursome. The again, considering how frequently Sherlock walked in on Mary and John snogging, it was still pretty much a trio.
Mary and John sat down, their jean-clad legs rubbing against each other, their fingers intertwined in an intense hand-hold. She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, causing Sherlock to let out a disgusted groan. Before Mary could even smack his head, Molly strolled in.
Sherlock took one look at her and froze. She appeared… Different. She was already dressed in her robes with her prefect badge on her chest. That was nothing new. She always changed immediately when she got on the train.
She was holding her fat, ginger tabby to her chest. That was nothing new. Toby always accompanied her.
Sherlock looked her up and down. She just looked… Mature. Her normally untamed waves were perfectly straight, half clipped to her head, leaving wisps to frame her face. Her once constricted eyes were no longer hindered by hideous glasses, allowing the world to see her brown orbs.
But most of all, she held her head up high, her shoulders straight back, a positive energy flowing off her person in a way that Sherlock had never encountered from Molly Hooper. In fact, when Mary looked at her, the clever Gryffindor immediately noticed the same thing.
"Oh Merlin," Mary practically moaned out, "It happened, didn't it?"
Molly blushed and sat beside Sherlock, holding Toby to her chest. "What are you referring to?" She asked rather shyly, nibbling on her bottom lip.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking between the two girls, missing some key pieces of information in their female talk. He glanced over at John, who instead of trying to deceiver the language, was already digging into a container of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.
Mary groaned and leaned across the open space of the train compart, scooting forward so her knees touched Molly's. "I'm dying of anticipation. Your last letter was coy!"
Molly flushed a darker shade of red, intensifying Sherlock's attention further. He continued to watch the girls, although pretending to focus most of his attention on a new ancient runes book that his father had gifted him with.
"Well, he and I…" Molly giggled and continued to rub down Toby, "We snogged a ton. Then we… You know…"
Mary squealed and clapped excitedly. "You shagged him?!"
Even that caught John's attention. He practically choked on the bean, to which Mary had to forcibly hit his back. Sherlock, meanwhile, had no pretenses with his book anymore. His attention was entirely devoted to the girls.
"Jeez, Mary, is this a conversation for all of us?" John asked, back to digging into the candy as if he hadn't nearly choked.
Mary narrowed her eyes at her boyfriend. "Of course, it bloody is! She's our friend. You don't think I ran to tell her after we shagged for the first time? You don't think I don't know that you and Sherlock stayed up all night discussing it?"
John turned a shade of pink. "I just mean—"
Molly groaned and bit her lip. "We didn't shag, Mary."
Mary pouted. "Then what did you mean by 'you know'?"
Sherlock continued to stare at Molly, his eyes narrowing. The compartment had gotten entirely too hot, and for some reason, he couldn't get his legs to stay still. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, feeling far too uncomfortable for his liking.
John snorted at his girlfriend's comment. "You know, Mary." He proceeded to make a lewd motion with his hand, suggesting that Molly may or may not have pleasured a man with her mouth. At his movements, Molly turned positively bright red.
"Yes." She squeaked out, "That."
Mary smirked. "How was it? Did you like it? How big was he?"
John groaned, "Merlin's beard, Mary! Do you really think Sherlock and I want to hear about size of some bloke's cock?"
Sherlock blinked, finally processing the information. Molly had engaged in oral sex with a man. For some reason (one which would require scientific research once at Hogwarts), his chest felt tight and his hands had begun to shake.
"No. Please share." Sherlock announced, surprised by his own words.
Molly looked to her side, meeting his blue gaze. She swallowed, seemingly remembering that he was beside her. She gave him a shaky nod.
"Right, well… I didn't think he was very big. But it was the first one I had ever seen so… What do I know?"
Mary proceeded to hold out her hands, trying to give Molly some frame of reference, to which John immediately scolded her. Mary pouted.
"Fine. Did he reciprocate?" She wagged her eyebrows.
Molly swallowed and shook her head. "No. I mean. He felt up my chest. But… He said he wouldn't do that. He said it was gross."
"That git!" Mary screeched, turning to look at John, "You believe that? You should write that stupid muggle boy," She fumed and turned back to Molly, "A real man can use his tongue."
She smirked and winked at John. "Watson surely has had practice."
Sherlock shut his eyes and leaned his head against the seat, desperately trying to get his heart rate down. He was concerned with what he would say if he opened his mouth at this moment.
"It's alright," Molly forced out, her eyes locked on Toby's belly, "I won't see Connor again so I don't think it matters."
Mary pouted. "Well, I'm certainly happy you got your first kiss then. And your first sexual experience in one run! You're a talented girl, Miss Hooper."
Molly giggled and stood up. "Do you want to say hello to Jessica and Maggie? We were going to discuss the planning for the Yule Ball."
"Oh, please! You'd think since they started holding one every year that the organization would get better! Last year was awful," Mary moaned, pressing a soft kiss to John's lips before rising to her feet.
"I know. But, with a student run club to help organize it, I think it'll be much better. We wanted to ask Professor McGonagall about—"
The chatters of the two girls disappeared out of the compartment, leaving John and Sherlock in silence. John was munching on jelly beans, watching his best mate intently. Sherlock, however, had abandoned his book, and was busy staring at the moving English landscape.
"You're being awfully quiet," John began, tossing another jelly bean in his mouth, "How was your summer?"
"Enough. You clearly have a question and you think you're clever by delaying it with small talk," Sherlock quipped.
John couldn't help but smirk. "Someone has a guilty conscience, I'd say." He paused to cringe at the vomit flavored bean he had eaten before focusing again on Sherlock, "Did you know Molly met a muggle bloke? She wrote you, didn't she?"
Sherlock continued to stare out the window. "Her letters only recounted mundane details of her muggle life, as well as the fascinating books she read," He shifted and shut his eyes, "Not that I care that she was seeing a muggle bloke."
John smirked. "I don't know. You seemed a bit perturbed by her summer fling."
He opened his eyes, glaring at his best mate. "You're mistaken, John. I can be disgusted by the conversation of Molly and your girlfriend without there being some form of ulterior sentiment attached."
"Sure. You can be. But that's not why you were annoyed."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I don't like Molly as anything more than a friend. Am I surprised by the rendezvous with a muggle? Yes. I was under the impression that she was infatuated with me. If that is no longer the case, then good riddance."
John rolled his eyes, ready to respond, when Greg Lestrade strolled in, fresh in his Gryffindor Quidditch robe and Head Boy badge. He grinned at the other two boys.
"Well, I hope you lot had a good summer!" He turned to John, his eyes intense, "We have a heck of a season ahead of us. I'm not going out with another loss to Slytherin on my record."
John nodded eagerly. "I'm ready. But we still need a new Keeper."
Sherlock tried to tune out the conversation. Greg and John devoted every bit of their extra time to Quidditch—both boys were team captain for the year. Greg was a Beater, John was a Chaser, and Mary was the best Seeker Hogwarts had seen since Harry Potter.
And while Sherlock was an excellent flyer, and each year found himself being recruited by someone on his house's idiotic team, he simply had no interest in the sport.
He eyed Greg's badge and sighed. He had other things to focus on. He had footsteps to follow in. To surpass. To bury under his own.
Eventually, with John and Greg's Quidditch conversation in the background, Sherlock drifted off to sleep, the thought of Molly's blushing face on his mind.
-o-o-
By the time Sherlock had settled into the Great Hall for their feast, his mind was all over the place. Molly was sitting beside him, discussing her silly muggle holidays to Barcelona and New York, excited about the foods she had tried and the places she had visited. Sherlock could hardly understand how seeing a tall building or an unfinished church would be considered fun, especially since he had gone on dragon safaris in the Far East for his own holiday.
But, he found her endless chatter calming, and tried to focus on her smiling face and the food in front of him. Molly smiled and ate another spoonful of peas.
"I'm so excited for this year. I know our N.E.W.T. level classes are going to require so much studying, but I'm ready for the challenge!" She grinned and sipped her pumpkin juice, "I hope you decided to keep Ancient Runes on your schedule."
Sherlock nodded and sipped his own juice. "You know I enjoy a good puzzle. I did, however, consider dropping herbology, but ultimately decided to continue."
"For John?" Molly asked, a giggle on her words.
He gave her a curt nod. "Once Quidditch starts up, our time together will be even more limited."
Molly frowned and nodded. "I know. Speaking of Quidditch, did you hear about Jim Moriarty?"
At the name, Sherlock scowled and pushed a piece of chicken into his mouth. When did Sherlock not hear about James Moriarty? The Slytherin git was perhaps his biggest adversary. He was cunning, clever, and a schmoozer, posing him as a favorite of the professors and an excellent student.
In fact, when it came down to considering Sherlock's biggest rival for the role of Head Boy the following year, it would likely be Moriarty.
With that thought, he scowled and looked to Molly. "No. What about Moriarty?"
"Well, I overheard some of the Slytherins, and apparently Jim is expected to become the team's Seeker since Allison graduated," Molly responded, looking towards the Slytherin table, "Rumor has it that Jim spent all summer working on his skills to beat out some third year for the position."
Sherlock tensed and sipped his pumpkin juice, considering the information. "Moriarty is to join the Quidditch team? As if he has an athletic bone in his body."
Molly shrugged and pushed her plate away, satisfied with her fill of food. "Well, maybe he just wants to get more involved."
Become more involved? More like be a shining student athlete and swoop in to claim my badge.
Sherlock scowled and pushed his own plate away. "Quidditch? Perhaps it's time I take up Anderson's offer."
Molly's mouth dropped open. "You? Play Quidditch? I thought you thought—"
"Yes," he jumped in, "I still believe Quidditch is a waste a time when there are so many remarkable books to read and spells to learn. But, I do see the merits in exercise and competition."
Molly blinked. "So, you're going to play Quidditch this year? What position?"
Sherlock smirked and sipped his pumpkin juice. "Seeker."
She coughed on her own mouthful of juice. "You? Seeker? Sherlock, you'd have to beat Moriarty and Mary!"
He shrugged. "Easy. I'm quick and there's no one better at finding things than me."
Molly swallowed and nodded. "Right. Well. I'll make sure to go to the matches then. I'll make you a sign!"
Sherlock was embarrassed to discover that the thought of Molly holding a sign for him was more invigorating than defeating Moriarty. It was yet another detail of the day that he'd have to evaluate, deep within his mind palace, later that evening.
And so, pudding was served, and Molly was back to her mindless chattering. Sherlock had a lot to think about.
Why didn't I think about this before? Mycroft didn't play Quidditch. Just by doing it, I've bested him.
He smirked and ate a spoonful of fondant, before another thought crossed his head.
Bugger. I need a broom.
To be continued…