Disclaimer: I do not own the old well-worn story of Sherlock or the beloved book series- Harry Potter. Those belong to JK Rowling and Steven Moffat... Well, actually, Arthur Conan Doyle. Also, I don't own the picture that inspired this. Sherlock's deductions about which house he belongs in goes to a particular artist that I don't remember right now.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat then me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can't see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve and chivalry,

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true,

And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

If you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin,

Where you'll meet your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means,

To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don't be afraid!

And don't get in a flap!

You're in safe hands (though I have none)

For a Thinking Cap."

Sherlock yawned as the sorting hat finished its annual poem. He was waiting in line with the other first years. He wanted to get this over with and learn as much magic as possible, he wondered if would be able to get into the restricted section of the library easily.

A small brunette girl stepped forward nervously to the sorting hat. He cringed as it was placed atop her head. It slipped over her eyes, it was way to big for the poor girl.

"Hufflepuff." Said Sherlock, examining his nails. The boy behind him that he had met on the train scowled.

"How would you know that? You've never even met Molly before."

"The same way I know that you fancy that twit, Donovan."

Anderson clenched his fists and pointedly looked away as the sorting hat bellowed, "Hufflepuff!" The girl shakily climbed down and she was accompanied by cheers from the Hufflepuff table to her seat.

Sherlock stepped forward, it was his turn now. He climbed up and his unusually tall figure was able to keep the sorting hat from obscuring his face completely.

"Hmm, yes... A TRICKY one... verrrrry tricky." It mumbled into his ear.

Sherlock snorted.

"Oh, you have something to say?" The hat said cheekily. If a hat could even have cheek.

Sherlock grinned. "Tricky? Don't be ridiculous."

He crossed his arms and began,

"Gryffindors are meant to be chivalrous and you can see that I have no use for MANNERS or TRADITION. Slytherin is odious and vile and Lucius Malfoy was their golden child, he was my mother's worst enemy. You can't put me there. Hufflepuff values hard work and patience, and I am interested in neither of those- I only care about my mind and what I can do with it, which brings me to my obvious conclusion: Ravenclaw."

The sorting hat did not speak or react for a full minute before it shouted grudgingly, "Ravenclaw!"

Sherlock allowed himself a smug smile and his fellow Ravenclaws cheered him as he made his way to their table. He took care to position himself as far away from his brother, Mycroft, as possible.

Sherlock did not pay much attention to the rest of the sorting except when he mumbled his deductions and his classmates were astounded and angered.

Anderson and that girl, Donovan were sorted into Hufflepuff, as he suspected. A boy with dark, almost black, brown hair took his seat beside him.

Sherlock knew with a glance that Donovan and Anderson were purebloods and that the dark-haired boy, Lestrade (he had heard Donovan call him that earlier) was a muggleborn.

Another boy, he did not recognize with sandy blond hair was the only other person he bothered to note. The boy was not eleven as all first years were, he was thirteen. Obviously presumed a muggle like his (obviously, dead) muggle parents until his latent talents with magic were shown.

Sherlock muttered, "Gryffindor." The sorting hat confirmed his deduction almost before it touched the boys head.

"GRYFFINDOR!" It bellowed twice as loud as usual. The boy did not jump even though almost half the room did.

He scrambled off the seat and trotted over to the red and gold clothed table, trying to get out of view of the crowd.

After that Gryiffindor, there was a skinny and sickly pale black-haired boy with an instant shout of "Slytherin!"

Sherlock was throughly glad when the banquet ended and he was escorted to Ravenclaw boys dormitory. The only disadvantage to the short walk was the grating mundane babbling of his classmates and Mycroft escorting them pompously down the corridor.

Sherlock resented the fact that Mycroft was a seventh year prefect, so he could look his nose down at the younger years. Luckily, he graduated this year so he would not have to endure his elder brother's quips for too long.

Scratch that, anytime spent with Mycroft was too much to bear.

Unfortunately, Mycroft had already secured himself a place in the Ministry of Magic as soon as he graduated. Mycroft- with his advantageous pureblood status and (Sherlock grudgingly admitted) smarts- would probably reach the position of Minister by the time he reached twenty.

Sherlock scowled at this thought and muttered to a brown-haired girl next to him, "Your name isn't Anthea." The girl started and rushed ahead.

Sherlock smiled. He might like it here.