Chapter 2

"Lemon drops, please," John said to the lady – no, the witch – who was pushing a trolley of refreshments. His new friend (or so John hoped), Sherlock Holmes, had just explained the entire contents of the cart and the wizard sweets. Feeling a little daunted by the Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, he wanted to go with something a little more close to home. He had traded his Muggle money with Sherlock (who knew the exact exchange rate: "Seventeen Sickles in a Galleon, twenty-nine Knuts in a Sickle, four hundred ninety-three Knuts to a Galleon. Roughly two and a half pence to a Knut –") and he carefully counted out the unfamiliar coins

"Do you want anything?" he asked Sherlock. The other boy sniffed.

"Not hungry. Anyway, there'll be a feast when we get there."

"Suit yourself," John shrugged, sucking on a lemon drop.

"What house do you think you'll be in?" Sherlock asked him, eyeing him thoughtfully.

"House?"

Sherlock huffed. "Oh for Merlin's sake, don't you know anything? I thought the school sent people over to explain things to the Muggle-borns' families!"

John prickled. "Well, I was a bit preoccupied with finding out about a whole secret world going on in the middle of London and that I was a part of it, and, you know, there's the whole 'existence of magic' thing. I'm sorry if I didn't catch every detail of the school structure." John crossed his arms defiantly, expecting an apology or at least a reaction from his passive-aggressive outburst.

But Sherlock just sighed with feigned weariness. "I 'spose I have to explain everything myself, as per usual." He rolled his eyes, but John could tell that he didn't mind the superiority. He continued, "There are four Hogwarts Houses: Ravenclaw the intelligent, Slytherin the cunning, Gryffindor the brave, and Hufflepuff, the loyal. Each one –"

John interrupted him with a "Hold on. How d'you know which one you're in? Just walk up an say 'oh, I'm smart, believe me, I'm to be in Crowbeak' –"

"Ravenclaw," Sherlock corrected impatiently.

John ignored him and continued, "And who on earth calls themselves 'the cunning'?!"

Sherlock gave a smirk, as if amused at an inside joke. "Well, they're also considered ambitious," he argued reasonably. "And it's not you who decides, it's the Sorting Hat."

John stared at him. "A hat."

"So I've heard."

And a hat it was. An old, brown, dirty hat that John's mum wouldn't have let him put on his head in a million years. He could just hear her warning of "lice, Johnny, lice," echoing in his head as he waited for his name to be called.

The hat had sung. Something about the houses, and working together or something like that, but the most important thing was simply that it had sung. John had to keep reminding himself that magic and things that were, in all regards, impossible, were in fact very real. Even when he was little, he had never been one to use his imagination beyond the ordinary. He remembered once, before he was even in primary school, he had informed his mum at storytime that Paddington Bear was pretend because bears couldn't talk, and he subsequently didn't believe in Peru until his second year.

John's attention was suddenly snapped back to the Sorting Ceremony when the hat called out "Holmes, Sherlock." As soon as the hat was put on his head, Sherlock looked across the room with his chin tilted up and his eyes narrowed. John gave a small frown of confusion and followed his friend's gaze. He found himself staring at an older Slytherin boy with dark hair and a serious expression. The boy was staring back at Sherlock with a sort of calculating look that had John rather befuddled. Caught up in the strange standoff, John was startled when the hat suddenly shouted "RAVENCLAW!" Sherlock sauntered toward the group of students marked with blue and bronze, looking smug. The Slytherin boy pursed his lips and turned away.

Pushing away the strange incident, John focused on trying to qualm the growing knot in his stomach. What is the hat decided that he didn't belong in any of the houses? He didn't feel particularly brave, or clever, or anything really. He was just sort of ordinary, he thought. Certainly not magical. What would mum and dad say if Hogwarts just sent him back?

"Watson, John." It was his turn at last. "Here goes nothing," he mumbled, and the only other student left, a small redheaded girl, gave him an encouraging smile. He stepped up to the hat.

Let's see now, what do we have here… John's eyes widened in surprise. He could hear the hat talking in his head. He suddenly didn't appreciate the invasion of privacy. 'Just sort of ordinary' eh? You don't give yourself much credit. Definitely too humble for Gryffindor. Better be – "HUFFLEPUFF!"

A large group of yellow and black clad students cheered, although John noticed two professors exchange a concerned glance. John made his way over to the Hufflepuff table as the Sorting Hat shouted, "Weasley, Ginevra." As he passed by the professors, he caught snippets of their conversation – "…not enough room… packed full already…" – but he tried not to worry about it.

A strikingly handsome older boy stood and shook his hand vigorously. "I'm Cedric, welcome to Hufflepuff!"