Chapter 1

It was already time to enter his sixth year, and he hadn't even finished collecting all of his data on the effects of stunning spells on various animals or his experiment on blood splatters of cuts done on the left arm from several angles and spells and knives. He'd have time for that later, he reminded himself. Right now, he had to get rid of Mycroft and... Jasmine.

Muggle princesses. Imaginary princesses, actually. She went through the real ones last month. Something called 'Disney' that he quickly deleted from his memory. No matter.

"Sherlock, don't forget to message Mummy when you arrive. You know how she worries."

"I only stalled the bus once. Four years ago. Let it go Mycroft!" He snapped at his older brother, taking hold of his trunk and stomping away, confident enough in himself not to care that he was acting childish in front of his schoolmates. Not like any of them would say anything. People would notice, speak and gossip, but none would say it to his face. Certainly not after all of his deductions from the last five years.

"Goodbye, brother dear."

He huffed in annoyance and hurriedly got onto the large, red train. He found an empty compartment in the back of the train and got in, effectively claiming it as his own. The trunk was placed in the storage above the seat and he took out the experiment he'd saved especially for the train ride to school. It took several hours to get to Hogwarts, plenty of time to get bored and cause mischief, but on request of his Mummy, his brother, the Minister of Magic, the Headmaster, his teachers, his schoolmates... He was to avoid being bored in such a confined space.

Mycroft had collected parchments and quills and inks from various countries, and Sherlock would take the train ride to learn everything he could about each and every one of them. An entire room in his mind palace was dedicated to paper and ink. Notes, messages, letters, and numbers, were key in many puzzles and crimes.

He pulled out the equipment from his luggage and set to work, knowing that if he looked out the window, his brother and Jasmine would already be gone.

Gears whirling, electricity zooming through the wiring, and the engine beginning to spurn were the indications that they were nearing their time of departure. Sherlock found it funny that the train gave off the impression of being just that, a train, with the workings of the muggle vehicles, when in fact it was merely a hunk of metal magically powered to go forward. Apparently it was a 'sentiment' thing, keeping tradition and easing in the transition for muggle-born students or half-blood students into the world of magic.

There was a knock on his door, and he looked at it expectantly. It happened sometimes for first-years to ask to sit with him, but they were usually shooed away by other students before he could do any damage to their 'feelings'. They would never get anywhere in life if they kept getting treated like fragile crystals, but according to Mycroft it wasn't his responsibility to toughen them up.

It was slid open and in the doorway stood... Somebody.

Wait... Somebody?

He wasn't a second to seventh year, as he knows every single student in the school, and he stood with confidence, definitely not a first year. The few first years who were confident still had a touch of nerves to their eyes and hands, but this boy was steady like a tree. So... Who could he possibly be?

Sherlock was pretty certain the boy was his age, average height for a sixteen year old, a little on the short side, but not too much so that he could be any younger than Sherlock himself. Blonde hair, cut short, blue exceedingly open and honest eyes, squared shoulders (disciplined, well-disciplined, used to orders and to following them), back straight (military straight, but the boy was too young for such things. Patternal figure then? Yes. Gentle, understanding mother, father in the military. Any magic in there?), old jeans and jumper, early puberty and nothing else since. Clear skin, clean and growing fingernails (mother's doing, hygienic, not demanded by father). Ten-year old sneakers, neutral gray and white, vomit stain on the right shoe, left-handed, held person with left arm, puked on his right side judging by the splatter. Name on the inside of right shoe, Harry Watson. Brother.

Watson. Not a pure-blood. Perhaps half-blood. Father wouldn't be a wizard, not if he's in military. Mother then. But no, a mother, a witch, would have used magic to remove the stain from the shoes, not have her son clean it with a cloth. Muggle-born.

Why would a muggle-born, sixth year, suddenly be coming to Hogwarts? Transfer student. That didn't happen, but with Dumbledore as Headmaster, anything could happen. He'd learnt as a young child that power could lead to results.

"May I?" The boy asked, interrupting his thousand-mile a minute thoughts.

"Please do, Mr. Watson."

"How did-"

"Hurry in. I find the draft irritating."

"Oh, okay." The boy entered the compartment, tugging his trunk in behind him, and closed the door. Once done, he turned back to Sherlock, "How did you know my name?" The boy's easy smile, despite his confusion, was... Strange compared to the sneers and glares he was used to getting. Sherlock was going to give him ten minutes before he left in anger, probably after a well-delivered punch. Muggles. So quick to use their fists.

"The train leaves in exactly one minute and thirty-seven seconds. I suggest you put your trunk away before it departs."

"Yeah..." He mumbled distractedly as he went about doing as he was told.

Sherlock watched intently. He was right about him being obedient, not even second-thinking the suggestion which was quite clearly actually an order.

The boy sat down in the seat, sending him another carefree smile, "I'm John Watson, although you apparently already knew that." He said, extending his hand.

Muggles. So touchy-feely.

"Sherlock Holmes." He said, slowly shaking the other boy's hand. "And I didn't know your name was John, although it was high on the list of possibilities. I know your last name's Watson by the name on your shoes. Harry Watson. Hand-me down shoes, well-maintained, a family members. Could be a cousin's, but the intimacy of the item indicates closer relation, so brother it is then."

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"I know your mother is a muggle, a dermatologist most likely, and your father is a soldier, has been for a long time. Probably a high-up in the ranks. Your brother is an alcoholic with little aspirations, What I cannot see is why a sixth-year wizard would suddenly be attending Hogwarts when he's spent the last five years at Durmstrang."

The jaw dropped, but instead of denials, came out a question, "How on earth did you know that?"

"It's not about knowing. It's about seeing and observing."

"Wh-... Okay then. How did you see that stuff?"

Sherlock sighed and began rattling off his deductions, "Your mother is a muggle, obvious by the lack of magic on anything you own. The stain on your shoe, for example, was hand washed when it could easily be removed by a simple spell. I say she's a dermatologist by the state of your skin. Clean, well-cared for, and you're using a cream that's fairly new and only a dermatologist would have access to it at this point in time. Your father's a soldier, then also a muggle. Probably family tradition as can be seen from your own lifestyle. You stand tall and confident, that's the kind of thing that needs to be taught. Who would teach you? Your father, obviously. Your brother is an alcoholic, and I go back to the shoes. The stain on the right shoe is a vomit stain from beer. People hardly over-drink beer. Are we done here?"

"That... Was amazing."

"You think so?" Sherlock looked at the other boy, slightly surprised by the awe that could easily be heard in his voice.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite... Extraordinary." John's eyes shone, and Sherlock noticed that for once, eyes on him weren't brimming with anger or hatred.

"That's not what people normally say." He said lowly, unsure about this sudden turn of events.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

Their eyes met, and neither of them could keep in their smiles, although neither were really sure why they were so happy. Sherlock, unaccustomed to this sudden warmth, turned quickly back to his experiment. Right. He was testing thickness of parchment first...

The experiment was a little all over the place, but John didn't seem to mind the mess, nor did he take up enough room to annoy Sherlock. They fell into an easy silence, Sherlock doing his experiment and John, sensing that the dark-haired teen wanted to be left to his own devices, took out a book from his trunk. It was after a half-hour that John finally had to ask.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock stopped smelling the russian paper and looked at the blonde that he'd nearly forgotten was there in the same compartment, "An experiment."

John set the bookmark in its place and put the closed book on his lap, and his blue eyes looked over the scattered equipment, "On parchment?"

"Yes, and if your next question is 'what', don't ask it. You'd have to be an incredible idiot not to see what I'm doing." Sherlock scoffed. Surely it was obvious?

"You have a vast collection of parchment from all over the world." That could easily be known by the little notes attached to each individual parchment by paperclips that indicated country names. "But I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"I'm categorizing the thickness, texture, scent, and colour of parchments from every country in the world."

"Okay... And why are you doing that?"

Sherlock sighed at the question. How stupid. "Because it's important."

"How is it important?"

"Because I said it is. Now shut up, you're distracting me. Don't bother, you're about to be carted away anyways." Sherlock waved away any signs of indignation from the blonde across from him, and he turned back to his work, paying atention to the footsteps he could hear drawing closer.

One person. One-inch heels. Long strides, tall, confident, accustomed to heels... Damn, Sally Donovan.

The door slid open (definitely Donovan, she never knocked. Manners, not her forté), and there she stood, her red and gold prefect badge on the robe she'd already changed into. "I was told the new kid was in here with the Freak, but I just had to see it. Hasn't run you off yet? That's a record, I should think."

"Better company than any you would recommend, I should think."

Sherlock was openly surprised for an entire second before he steeled himself back into his composed disinterest. This was a turn of events, and Sally was also definitely aware of this change, if the sneer on her lips could be of any indication. His dark eyes looked her over. Not surprisingly, she'd just had a snog with Anderson whose current girlfriend was already a graduate and was working in the ministry. She'd spent most of her summer galivanting with boys, a few weeks at her muggle mother's cottage, a row with her moron of a father (department of magical transportation. Dull.), new haircut, manicure, robe almost completely void of dirt, wanting to start the year of pretty like all the other girls. Boring.

He turned his attention to John, who was looking at Sally with a small smile on his lips. The comment was clearly not meant as an insult, but as a warning. How far would John take this 'gallant' attitude of his? With Sherlock, probably not for long, he'd lasted longer than he'd thought he would, yes, but he was sure their time was running short. How gallant was John Watson? Sherlock wanted to find out, but not now. When the boy would leave him, he could observe and deduce this new character that had just entered his life, but for now, he would watch the ex-Durmstrang student intereract with one of the people who hated him the most.

... That was odd. He'd, not forgotten- merely pushed aside-, the question as to why John had transfered. Later, he told himself. There was much time ahead.

"Oh, you'll see." Sally's own smile was knowing, as if she was sure that Sherlock was going to scare off the new kid. It appeared to be a popular thought... "Anyways, I'm meant to bring you to the front to speak with Professor Slughorn."

"Alright." John said with a resigned sigh, as if the idea was utterly unappealing. Which it kind of was.

Sherlock detested Slughorn. He talked too much.

"Well, come along then." Sally said impatiently.

John got up from his seat and she made to walk away, but he stopped her, "Give me a second. I'll take my trunk. The man probably won't give me a second to breathe until we're off the train, I won't have time to come back for it. He probably talks in his sleep, surprised he still has vocal chords..." John spoke as he worked on his task, and Sherlock grinned at the words, then pushed it back. This Watson boy was an interesting character that much was certain.

"Hurry would you?"

"I'm sure Anderson will be just where you left him. Judging by the state of your knees you were scrubbing the floors, again. How hygienic of you."

"Go to Hell, Holmes." She seethed and turned her back to him, taking a few steps, impatient for John to just get out of that compartment so she wouldn't have to look at the smug grin on the brilliant boy's lips.

John freed his trunk and stopped at the exit momentarily, "Farewell, Mister Holmes."

"Farewell." He responded boredly watching the door close behind the blonde boy.

John Watson. He could get Mycroft to get all the information he'd need about the boy by the next day, but Sherlock wanted to unravel this puzzle on his own. Maybe this year wouldn't be as boring as the previous ones.

AN : Hola people! This is a new fanfic for a new show I've started watching. Finished watching the show and I've been reading fanfic and I've noticed the lack of PotterLock fics, so I decided to try my hand at one! This is set in the 70's, they're a couple years older than the Marauders, and I dunno if they'll show up in this fic or not. I dunno what's gonna happen with this fic, but I've got many ideas.

Hope you enjoyed the first chapter!

-MewMew