He was walking towards the front of the hall, packed among other students, a nervous tremor running through his body. In all his eleven years, he had never felt so on edge. There were four possible destinations, each with its own perks and disadvantages, but he would only be in one. His family was scattered into all different houses. Even his own great mind failed him at that moment, unable to fathom were he would be placed.
Sherlock was curled in the armchair, catlike, a book open on his lap. His eyes, however, were barely open, as he gazed sleepily at the ceiling, remembering his first day at Hogwarts. It was all so distant and fuzzy, but he could remember with detail all of the emotions clawing and biting at his gut. Once some noisy first years passed, he closed his eyes again to continue reliving the scene.
That old, worn hat had taken what seemed like eternity to place him, and when it sorted him into Ravenclaw, the only emotion he felt was relief-relief that he wasn't stuck with Mycroft, relief that he had been sorted and the wait was over, and relief that the hat hadn't told him that it was all a mistake and he was a squib with no magical abilities whatsoever. He was in a daze for the rest of the feast, barely touching his food.
When he first stepped into the common room, he had been in awe. With all of the calming dark blues, the high, arched ceiling with constellations dancing about, and the towering windows that showed a spectacular view of the grounds. Everything excited him beyond imagining.
The boy twisted his face into a kind of grimace-smirk gesture that attempted to display both longing and amusement simultaneously. Over the next five years, his excitement had sapped away quickly until he found himself bored with everything. He soon learned that even for a Ravenclaw, he was different. He had expected to be surrounded by scholars in a house known for its intelligence, but even as a first year he stood out, rivaling the sixth and seventh years in intelligence. It didn't take long for the other students to call him a freak, and he grew quite accustomed to being alone.
He soon learned to love that loneliness-it was his constant companion, always there for him, never changing. If he got acquainted with sadness, how much could anything hurt him, really?
So he delved into books and learning, poured himself into his studies, and excelled beyond belief. His intelligence allowed him to quickly master even the most complicated spells, and he was soon renowned as being one of the most talented students Hogwarts had ever seen.
However, this pleasure in learning faded as it began to grow redundant to him. It was an escape, and became only that; not a source of excitement or joy. Sherlock struggled to find a point in anything, really, and so once his work was finished, he took to curling up in an armchair with a book until he fell asleep.
Shaking thoughts of this downward spiral out of his head, he ran a hand through his dark curls and tossed the book carelessly onto the coffee table.
The common room was empty now, and there was a distant rumble of thunder somewhere over the mountains. He curled up in the ledge of the center window, and slowly drifted off to sleep, his face pressed against the glass, as the first drops of September rain began to cascade down from the heavens. Perhaps this year would be different.