"Ah!" The short, curvy girl jumped backward from Sherlock, her legs moving independently and landing a foot away. "Sorry, I'm-"
"A Muggleborn. That much is obvious. An orphan too, shown by the absence of a parent and by the tattered dress, several years out of fashion. Unbelievably insecure, although with an internal impulse to be social and a desire popular: no surprise there." He snorted softly. "Moderately intelligent." His lip curled as he surveyed her. He knew, internally, that he was taking his anger about the umbrella incident out on the petite girl. There were several more things that he was preparing to say, cruel things, but he paused to gauge her reaction. But instead of the expected slap, or the ever courteous "piss off," or even, as had happened before, an eye roll (he was expecting the slap, from a teenage girl) she looked up at him in disbelief. Probably, he reassured himself, this is the prologue to an outburst of some sort.
"My god. You're a right proper genius. That's amazing. That's just not fair." She looked up at him, tall and bony. "Are all the par- purebloods like this?"
"Well. No, they're not. I'm special, I suppose." He raised his chin, proud and modest at the same time. "That's not what people normally say." And then, just for a moment, she could see a small boy in a scarf, insulating against words and weather, in his piercing eyes.
"Well, what do they normally say?" She asked quietly, unsurely.
"Piss off," he said, with the snarky, bitter wall up again. Clara looked up at him with, once again, disbelief.
"Well. That's not very polite." She didn't try to comfort him, but she wanted to scream At least you know you're better than them. At least you know you're 'special'. Her? She was alone. Talentless and alone. When she next spoke, voice was light, with a hint of jealousy in it. "You have an ungodly amount of talent. I would like to borrow some of it." And then, with a slight and slightly shaky smile on her lips, she patted his hand and took off, jacket flying behind her, after Professor McGonagall.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft turned around from where he'd been humming innocently (read: eavesdropping) and smacked Sherlock lightly with his umbrella. "That was absolutely adorable. You know, I do believe that she is in your year at Hogwarts. Although, I must warn you— you're never going to get to date her like that. 'I'm special'? You prat!" He laughed; Sherlock straightened up and, with a slight pink tinge on his cheeks, warned Mycroft off with a snarl. "Now, shall we stop this prattering and head out to Diagon Alley?" Sherlock asked quickly, trying to forget about the girl- something-ra Oswin, he had seen from her Hogwarts letter clenched and folded in her fist. Oswin, he dubbed her quickly, and walked away fast, heading into Diagon Alley. He saw Oswin's face, blinking and telling him he was a 'right proper genius.'
He clenched his fist and pushed the memory behind a library-full of sheet music for violin.
They entered Diagon Alley quickly, Sherlock rolling his eyes at the gaggle of women and girls crowding around Flourish and Blotts. "Gilderoy Lockhart," he sighed, and glared at the long line. It was boring enough to have to spend an entire day purchasing school supplies. He had tried to hold off this useless expedition for as long as possible, but his Mummy was unswayable.
"Now, dear, let's head to Flourish and Blotts first." He sighed softly and followed her to the line leading out of the shop. Bored! was the word graffitied across every possible surface on his mind palace. "Mummy, you know very well how much I… dislike… that man."
But, dear, have you even read his books? They're absolutely brilliant! The way he defeated the werewolf…" Sherlock had already tuned out, carefully plastering his 'attentive son' expression on his face while adding 'Gilderoy Lockhart' to his mental list of things not to talk about with his mother. Mycroft shot him a sympathetic and pained grimace.
-POV-
"So, I have no wizarding money and no Muggle money. How will we go about this? Will I get a loan?" Clara asked. She had been asking the professor questions about money and all the shops ever since she entered Diagon Alley, after being told off softly for talking to 'that Holmes boy.' She didn't really take the warning seriously, although did remember it for future purposes. When Professor McGonagall looked at her curiously, she elaborated. "You know? A loan? Where you lend somebody money, and they repay you later with a little bit more? You do have loans here, right? I'll get a job or help people with things or whatever. I will repay it, though."
Clara was, suddenly, very scared. She had been tossed into this world fast, moving from a lonely orphanage to the middle of a pandemonium of a market, with vendors hawking 'cheap dragon scales' and 'the best price for genuine phoenix quills'. And so her mind had tried to narrow the sensory input down to one thing: the money. She had never had any money, and the wizarding currency appeared to be made of pure, real gold. So of course, the topic of 'how on earth will I get the money for my school supplies' was at the top of her list.
Professor McGonagall looked down, stunned at the petite, Muggleborn girl. "Yes, we do give out student loans, but you are only eleven, and Muggleborn. No offense. There is an easier way: you can rent robes, books, and even a wand from the school."
"No," Clara said. "I want to buy it myself." She knew that it was not a smart decision, to take on a job in addition to this new, unconforming school, but she couldn't help herself. The wands in the shop were beautiful, elegant works of art. She wanted, just for once, to be able to own something that beautiful, to be able to say, 'Yes, this is mine. I bought it for myself.' She looked down at her feet, looked up, and said it again. "I would like to take a loan, please."
Professor McGonagall was about to answer when the Holmeses came bustling by. "Oh, look, Sherlock! There is that girl who was so lovely to you in the Cauldron!" Sherlock's cheeks burned a bright red, and Clara looked, with a slight, apologetic smile on her lips and a blush of her own coloring her face, at his agony.
"Now that's one problem I'll never have to suffer through," she said under her breath, only half-listening to the conversation between the adults. "What? Sorry." She asked, realizing that they were talking to her.
"I asked you, dear, if you would like to borrow some of our old robes and things. We've got plenty!" Mrs. Holmes said with a delighted grin upon her face.
Oh well, Clara thought. I've gone all out already. No sense in confusing anyone any more. She took a breath. "No, thank you very much. I am planning t' with- withdraw a loan." She felt like an idiot, with her street slang and quiet talk and Lancashire accent against these clipped and proper tones. Mrs. Holmes looked shocked, and then, softly, the boy stepped up. The one called Sherlock, the genius. She pinched her fingers together, liking him already, hoping he wouldn't get mad and that Mrs. Holmes wouldn't either.
"Excellent choice there." he said, lips curling up slightly. "Might I assist you in finding the best-priced items for the loan?" She was eighty-five percent sure that he was only doing this to get away from his mother. But the other fifteen percent was a glorious he wants to spend time with me, someone in this weird magical world appreciates me, and that? She could totally support. She didn't even really think before giving him a lopsided, lip-biting smile and nodding.
"You most certainly may, Mr. Holmes." And then, with a curt nod from Professor McGonagall and a warning from Sherlock's mother, they were off, laughing, to the nearest store. "Young love," his mother sighed, and both children looked back to glare, surprised.
