John was ecstatic to be going back to Hogwarts. The summer had been long and dull, as most time spent in the Muggle world had become to John after a few years at Hogwarts. He missed his friends, and he missed the Great Hall, and he even kind of missed his classes.

He was about to start his NEWT courses, having gotten pretty decent marks on his OWLs (3 A's, 4 E's, and even 2 O's in Potions and Herbology). He didn't do well enough to move onto NEWT Transfiguration, but he'd never much liked that class anyway. He was taking Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Herbology, History of Magic, Care of Magical Creatures, and Arithmancy. The last his friends teased him for, since mostly over-ambitious Ravenclaws took Arithmancy, but inexplicably he enjoyed it—even considering the ridiculous amount of homework Vector assigned. He liked it better than Divination and Muggle Studies, at least, both of which he'd tried before and disliked immensely. And Study of Ancient Runes sounded like about as much fun as a root canal. So Arithmancy it was, then.

John had spent the entirety of his train ride avoiding going to Slughorn's carriage. He had been a favourite of Slughorn's since he showed a knack for Potions his first year. Being a favourite of Slughorn was apparently an honour… but mostly John hated it. He was a rather patronising man and passive-aggressively mentioned John's blood status far too often. "You're rather wonderful at Potions, you know, for a Muggleborn." As if that had anything to do with anything.

Not only did he spend the entire time hiding from The Slug Club, but he also didn't have anyone to speak with because all his friends were prefects—or, in Greg's case, Head Boy. They spent their time patrolling the train.

He ran into Molly one time in the corridor as he was running away from one of the Slug Club kids, who'd been looking for him.

"John, hi—" Molly began, since the two hadn't seen each other in a while.

"Molly, hey, nice to see you, bye," John said quickly, not slowing down as he bolted in the opposite direction.

"Erm… okay?" he heard Molly mutter, but he'd ignored her.

Once he got off the train, he met Greg, Molly, and Sally outside, Sally's boyfriend Phil close beside her. It was funny, because he was a Slytherin. She'd been so against them back in first year, but now, in her sixth, she had a Slytherin boyfriend. John teased her for it frequently. He didn't always get along with her, but still somehow they were friends. Their constant bickering was mostly friendly.

They all got in the same carriage, squeezing in more people than they could actually fit—especially considering that someone was already in the carriage, staring out at nothing.

John was in the process of apologising to Molly for earlier when Sally said loudly, demanding attention, "Hey, did you know these carriages don't actually run by themselves?"

"Oh, come off it!" Greg replied.

"No, really! They're pulled by invisible horses or something."

"Invisible horses?" asked John sceptically.

"Well I definitely heard it somewhere!" Sally stated.

"I think I've heard that too," piped in Molly, sounding timid.

"That's because it's true, you imbeciles."

Everyone in the carriage got quiet and looked over to the boy that had already been sitting there, the one John had initially ignored. Now that he'd called attention to himself by being a git, however, he took a closer look. He was thin and pale, with prominent cheekbones and curly raven hair that whipped around in the wind. John currently couldn't see half of his face, since he was still staring out of the carriage—in front of it, specifically.

"I didn't know you were here," said Phil distastefully to the boy.

"Ignore him," Sally muttered to everyone else, giving a sidelong glare to the boy as she said it, a scowl on her lips.

"Lay off, both of you," Greg warned in his new, authoritative Head Boy voice. "You're both prefects. Act like it."

They looked annoyed, but stayed silent.

But the boy sounded so sure of such a strange, seemingly impossible fact that it made John curious. "What do you mean, it's true?"

The boy sighed quietly in annoyance. "The creatures that pull them are called Thestrals. They're a breed of winged horses with a skeletal body and reptilian features. Their wings mildly resemble that of a bat. The reason none of you can see them is because Thestrals can only be seen by those that have witnessed death."

"Really?" Molly blurted out, and John looked to her with an eyebrow up. She shrunk back again and said quietly, "I just mean that's awful."

John agreed with that sentiment. A creature that could only be seen by someone who had watched a person die. What kind of horrible creature could these things be?

Sally scoffed. "No, Molly, that's complete rubbish. He's just trying to scare you. Do you just make things up to pretend you're clever?" she accused the boy.

"Sally…" Greg warned once more.

"No, I read," the boy replied coldly, still not making eye contact with anyone.

John noticed that the boy was looking to the front of the carriage, where these 'Thestrals' would most likely be, if they were there. And if the boy was looking at the Thestrals, then that meant… "Have you seen death, then?" asked John.

Finally, he turned to John. He was wearing a striped blue scarf, which told John he was a Ravenclaw. Made sense, the way he could spew off facts like a textbook. That was somewhat common for the other Ravenclaws he knew. He had an interesting face, unlike any John had ever really seen before. But mostly, he saw the eyes. They were an unnaturally pale blue, almost white. They were the ice atop mountains, cold and unfeeling. He was returning John's gaze with an intensity that made John shift uncomfortably.

"Yes," he replied, his voice stony and steady like it had been when he was telling them all what a Thestral was.

John wondered what he had seen… and why he didn't seem to care.

John wanted to say something, but couldn't think of a single thing, so he just continued to watch the boy. The boy watched him right back for a long moment before looking back to the front of the carriage.

John still had no proper response, so he turned back to his friends, who were already chatting again. It started raining, which had everyone complaining, since the tops of the carriages had not been added because they weren't expecting any rain. Everyone seemed to forget about the other boy in the carriage, who still stared ahead, the rain not affecting him at all. Well, everyone but he and Molly. Molly was still quiet, like she was still thinking about what he'd said about the things that pulled the carriages. And John kept looking back at the boy and wondering how someone so young could seem so emotionless, even while discussing death. He met a lot of mean people his age, but being unfeeling altogether was a pretty adult trait—and usually caused by trauma.

John wasn't paying attention to the ride and before he even knew it they had arrived at the castle. Everyone got out, the mysterious boy immediately walking briskly with long legs into the Hall, shoving past everyone without a single word of apology.

"Who was that?" John asked, unable to keep silent any longer.

"Doesn't matter," scoffed Sally.

"I'd like to know anyway," said John, trying not to get annoyed.

"Sally, stop being a bitch," Greg accused, before saying to John, "He's a fifth year, I think. His name is Sherlock Holmes. I've had a few classes with him. He's always in higher level classes. I think he might graduate early, if that's possible. No matter what course they put him in, it's never hard enough. I heard he took his OWLs last year, even though he was only a fourth year, so he might be starting NEWTs this year."

John soaked that in. He couldn't just account that to the average Ravenclaw, since he'd never heard of someone taking classes higher than their own year. And John had enough difficulty with OWLs the year he took them—he couldn't imagine taking them a year early. "He's… interesting," said John, not knowing what else to say.

"Yeah, that's one word for it," Phil muttered.

"What've you two got against him, anyway?" Greg snapped. "He's not that bad."

But he must've been kind of bad, from Greg's tone, John noticed.

"He's weird!" said Sally. "And a know-it-all."

"I mean really," Phil added, "what kind of Pureblood—"

"What's pure blood got to do with anything?" asked John pointedly, not even letting Phil finish his sentence. People bringing up blood status got really old and John didn't usually tolerate it.

"Oh, erm, nothing," Phil said. After that people uncomfortably said goodbyes, since everyone was either Head Boy or prefects so they had to go help the firsties. That left John quickly alone in the entrance hall, surrounded by the other kids that were crowding in to get to the Great Hall.

Then John saw that boy again. Sherlock Holmes.

It seemed his feet acted before his head, because he found himself drifting over to him. Now that he really thought on it, he'd seen the boy before once or twice. Maybe even in one of the classes he had with the Ravenclaws… but he'd never paid him any actual attention until now. He was leaning against the wall outside the Hall, looking at everyone walking by with a scathing look on his face.

Then his eyes met John's once he was a metre away. The look on his face was so mean that it made John stutter to a stop. At that he seriously considered 'turning round and leaving, deciding inquisitiveness wasn't worth dealing with someone so intent on being unpleasant, but then the boy called Sherlock spoke.

"Did you want something, John?"

John's head tilted a little to the side and he was officially too curious to leave. "You know my name?"

"Of course I do. I know everyone's name."

John rolled his eyes. "You can't know everyone's name," said John.

"No, you can't," retorted Sherlock.

John took that moment to close the distance between them, leaning against the wall beside him and crossing his arms. "Then how can you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Because I'm apparently the only clever person in his school."

John pursed his lips. "Is that so?" He was starting to see where Sally was coming from, if only a little bit. The whole know-it-all thing seemed to be ringing true at the moment.

"Sure it is."

"How clever are you, then?" asked John.

Sherlock glanced over to John, looking him up and down for a second or two. His scan seemed to burn straight through John, making him even more uncomfortable than their last bout of eye contact had. "You're a sixth year Gryffindor. Quidditch player, either a Keeper or a Beater, but I'm leaning towards the latter. You excel in Potions and Herbology. Though you spend time with Donovan and Anderson frequently, you don't much like them, and you only bother with them because Lestrade and Molly like them. You're a Muggleborn and you think that you actually belong in Hufflepuff—that's complete rubbish though."

John's mouth fell open before he could stop it and he swallowed nervously.

"How'd you know all that?" he asked, trying to take the accusation from his voice but pretty much failing.

"I didn't know, I observed."

John blinked. "You figured all that just from looking at me?"

"Obviously. And loads more—a conversation with friends is the most illuminating scene possible. Do you want to hear more?" He asked the last part dryly, like he was only saying it to be mean.

But John was just dumbfounded. He couldn't have heard it from someone else because one of those bits of information was something nobody but he and Professor McGonagall knew—and it was unlikely she'd told him. Only possible explanation: Sherlock honestly figured it out just by looking at him. "That… that was brilliant."

Sherlock looked over to John, blinking in surprise like he couldn't believe John had said that. He looked like he was trying to think of something to say, but John didn't let him, continuing, "You said I was wrong about being sorted into Gryffindor incorrectly. What'd you mean by that?"

Sherlock's expression was somewhere between amused and intrigued. Now he was definitely going to say something—but as he opened his mouth his eyes narrowed and his head whipped 'round, his eyes meeting an incoming student.

Another boy, tall and clearly older than them, was approaching. He had his hair slicked back and was shaking out his umbrella. His green tie told John 'Slytherin', which made him wary. He didn't hate every Slytherin or anything, but a lot of them were prats, that much was true.

"Sherlock," the other boy said, his lips scrunched like he'd been perpetually biting into a lemon his entire life. "Making friends, are you?" The question sounded innocent enough if you ignored the patronising way the boy uttered it.

"Mycroft," he greeted coldly. "Don't you have anything better to do than talk to me? Like Head Boy duties to attend—oh wait. You didn't get Head Boy. Lestrade did. Which just leaves you as a measly Prefect, no better than Anderson."

The new boy's lip twitched. "I don't see you with a Prefect's badge," he observed.

"That's because I don't want one."

"No, that's because, though you qualify academically, you've managed to alienate every person in this school. No professor likes you enough to recommend you."

Sherlock's lip twitched in exactly the same way as the other boy's—Mycroft—had, and John suddenly was hit with a realisation. Brothers. They had to be, from the resemblance to the bickering.

Then Mycroft looked over to John. "Hello there. Chatting with him is so pleasant, isn't it?" he asked dryly.

And John wasn't exactly sure why he did it—not sure at all, in fact—but he glared at Mycroft and said coldly, "Yes, actually, it was quite nice until you arrived and ruined it."

Both of them were looking to him in disbelief now, but John held his ground, glaring up at Mycroft. After a moment, he smirked. "Very loyal very quickly, Mr Watson. Seems you're in the wrong House."

And then he strode away, swinging his umbrella as he entered the Great Hall.

John continued to scowl his way until he was out of sight. Did Mycroft somehow know about John's self-consciousness about his not belonging in Gryffindor, like Sherlock had, or had it been a coincidence, him bringing it up?

John looked back to Sherlock, who had gained his composure and was now staring once more at the surrounding crowd, which had thinned a great deal. "You shouldn't have done that," Sherlock finally said. "Defended me. You don't want to be on Mycroft's bad side."

"I'm not afraid of that posh git," John scoffed. Sherlock huffed out a quick laugh and John was comforted by the fact that he had a sense of humour at all. "Your brother, right?" John added.

"Unfortunately," he said distastefully. "That wasn't a bad deduction," he added, smirking over at John. "How'd you know?"

John considered for a moment how to answer. "It's not really that you look alike, per se, but you kind of both… feel the same. Does that make sense?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in what seemed to be honest curiosity. "Feel? Feel how?"

"You're both… intimidating. And know things you shouldn't, like my name and my… my feelings about my House placement," John finished timidly.

Sherlock was quiet for long enough that John looked at him again. The entrance hall was now empty—everyone was in the Great Hall. Any moment, Filch would come out and yell at them to get inside so he could mop up the water left by the rain-drenched students.

"You're in NEWT level Potions, I presume?" asked Sherlock eventually.

Pretty random question, in John's opinion. "Erm, yeah," he responded, not masking his confusion. "Why?"

"Because sixth year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws have it together this time 'round. That and Arithmancy, but I don't suppose you have that."

"I have Arithmancy, yeah."

Sherlock looked surprised for a moment before his face smoothed. "Maybe I'll see you."

John nodded a little and Sherlock strode away, leaving John standing in the entrance hall, staring after the peculiar boy with a strange feeling in his chest.

"Hey, you, get out of here!" growled Filch, and John entered the Hall to watch the Sorting for his sixth time. He enjoyed watching the Sorting normally, but this year he found himself heartily and inexplicably distracted with glancing over at Sherlock Holmes. The other boy was equally distracted, sitting with his hands pressed together under his chin, seemingly ignoring everything around him as he stared at the table and thought very hard about something.

"You okay?" asked Greg eventually.

John started, not expecting anyone to speak to him. "Erm… yeah, fine," said John absently.

There was a silence in which Greg didn't buy John's lame response. "Alright, if you say so."

John nodded and glanced over one more time… but this time, Sherlock was looking back. John was only able to see Sherlock's eyebrow cock up quickly in curiosity before he got embarrassed at being caught staring and looked resolutely back at the Sorting. But Sherlock Holmes, clearly devoid of shame, could be felt staring at John, burning a hole in the side of his head.

And though they didn't know it, the two were now irreversibly connected to one another—and their seemingly casual crossing of paths would change the course of their time at Hogwarts—the course of the rest of their lives.