Chapter 1.

In the Autumn of the year 1865 I was due to begin my education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and so, after a few tearful embraces which my mother felt it necessary to bestow and an evil grin and an off hand "See you at the Sorting" from my brother Henry, who was entering his fifth year at the same school, I was bundled onto the Hogwarts Express with a trunk neatly labelled 'John H. Watson' and an awkward looking owl in a cage tucked under one arm.

The Hogwarts Express bustled along like a middle aged woman as I fought my way through the yelling, running, seething mass of humanity that the train contained. Just as I thought hopelessly that I should never get anywhere and would most likely be trampled if I stayed in the hall any longer, there was a tap on my shoulder, and turning I came face to face with Bart Stamford, who had been a friend of mine since our infancy. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of people heartened me greatly, and together we pushed and pulled and battered until we managed to get to an empty compartment, where we deposited our bags and flopped down with the air of two boys who have accomplished some major task.

"Whatever have you been doing to yourself, John?" Bart piped up after about half a minute's silence "It's only been about a month since I last saw you and you are as brown as a nut."

I grinned. "Mother and Father took Harry and I to the seaside for 2 weeks, as a treat before I started school."

Bart whistled. "Lor, you are lucky. I wish MY parents took me to the seaside. All I got was a new owl, look…" he gestured upwards toward the tawny owl asleep with its head under its wing.

"It's very nice" I said dutifully, and Bart beamed.

Our conversation doubtless would have continued in this vein had the door of our compartment not burst open with a dramatic bang, causing us both to jump and the owls to express their displeasure by hooting and flapping their wings.

Framed in the door was a small, skinny boy, about half a head shorter than I, and already dressed in his wizarding robes. When this was coupled with the fact that he had a rather aquiline nose, high, prominent cheekbones, very black hair and sharp, penetrating grey eyes, the overall impression I got was of a small, underfed bird of prey.

"Have you seen the state of the corridor?" he cried in a high, thin voice, flopping down onto the seat beside Bart 'Really, it's like feeding time in the monkey house at London Zoo. Indeed, I believe it is worse, though at the time I thought surely such a thing would be impossible. I must say, you wizards have very little sense of dignity. Perhaps that's why my father disowned me. Oh well, I'm sure Mummy will still write; she did to Mycroft…."

During this amazing speech my companion and I had been staring open mouthed and at a loss for words, but here Bart piped up "Oh, you're muggleborn, then. And who's Mycroft?"

The boy looked up. "If by 'muggleborn', you mean my parents are not magical, then yes, I am. And Mycroft is my elder brother." For a moment we all sat in silence, and then the boy said curiously "What else can you be?"

"Well," Bart said, puffing out his chest, "You can be half-blood, like me. A half-blood is someone with one muggle and one magic parent, or with one muggle born and one pureblood parent. And a pureblood is like him" he pointed at me "someone whose family is all magic. And," he continued with an air of curiosity "why do you look peaked?"

The boy regarded Bart with a disdainful look before replying "I ate eggs. And I always get nervous when I eat eggs, Mr.…."

"Stamford. Bartholomew Stamford, though most people call me Bart." My companion replied, seemingly oblivious to the look the boy was directing at him.

"Ah. Well, Stamford, Watson, farewell, though I'm sure I shall see you again over this year." With that, he stood up to go, but turned back when I cried "How do you know my name? I never told you it!"

"It's written on your trunk." He sighed, pointing. I turned to look at the offending trunk, and as I did so the boy swept out.

Stamford and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows and were about to resume speaking when the boy poked his birdlike head back round the door and said "Oh, I'm Holmes." and then banged the compartment door for the third time in less than 5 minutes.

A stunned silence filled the room after this extraordinary interruption. Both Bart and I gazed at the door, then simultaneously burst out laughing.

"What an odd little chap!" cried Bart. "He'll have to work on that ego of his, or the Slytherins and the older Ravenclaws will be on him in no time."

I wasted no time in agreeing with my friends sentiments, and we then embarked on a heated discussion of the current Quidditch league. In fact, so heated was our discussion we didn't realise the compartment door had again opened until a voice inquired "Excuse me, but may we sit here?"

"Of course you can." I was confused by this inherent civility that seemed to permeate the school train. Where I came from no one ever said "excuse me". My brother Henry had more inventive ways of getting my attention.

"Unless you have typhoid." Barty has the unenviable ability to bring out the awkwardness in any situation.

"I had mumps when I was six," said the taller of the two.

Oh God, I thought, Bart's got a kindred spirit.

"Is there something wrong with that?" snapped the small, sallow, rat faced boy who accompanied him, stepping in front of his companion protectively.

"Only if the contagion persists! Which I'm sure it doesn't!" said Bart, desperately, trying to defuse the situation.

I decided to intervene before things degenerated into senseless preadolescent violence.

"Uh, my name's Watson. John Watson. You can call me John, though; most people do. And this is my trunk… I mean… friend, Bart."

The sallow boy looked at us suspiciously. I have not to this day figured out why since he invited himself into our compartment to begin with but I believe it has something to do with neuroses, a condition we only barely understand to this day.

"I'm Lestrade—"

"But Gabri—!"

"Sh! Lestrade." He held out his hand, silencing the boy behind him with a glare, before turning back to us. "Oh, and my companion is Stanley Hopkins."