Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and co. They belong to BBC and Moffat.
One: A Lion and A Snake
"Do you have everything with you?" Hamish Watson asked as he inspected the trolley. "Clothes, books, school things? Everything in here?"
"Dad, you've got to stop worrying," Harry muttered with a roll of her eyes. She had John pressed to her side, one arm draped across his shoulders, practically strangling him. John didn't seem to mind though. He looked as if he barely registered it. He had been like that all morning, numb and detached. His eyes were on his trainers but every now and then he would look up and scan the crowd. His father did not have to guess to know who he was looking for.
She's not coming, he wanted to tell him. She hadn't made her presence known since she left John to his care. A part of Hamish hated her for abandoning their son. Another part wanted to thank her for leaving him be. John was—surprisingly—one of them. And he wouldn't become a better one if he stayed with one of the biggest Muggles Hamish had ever met—and Merlin's sake, he even married her. It was tearing John apart, he knew, but the boy needed to move on, the way he did.
Harry seemed to be thinking along the same lines as him. She moved away from John then walked to a group of teenagers who must have been her friends. They were just getting ready to cross the barrier. Hamish looked at his watch. They still had plenty of time.
"Nervous, aren't you?" he said, doing his best to keep his voice light and cheerful for John's sake. His son looked up at him. "I know it's still overwhelming, but you'll get used to it eventually."
"But what if there's been a mistake?" John bit his lip. It was a nervous habit, one that Harry shared. "I haven't made anything weird happen at all."
"You went to Ollivanders, John. A wand chose you and that means you're a wizard like me." He didn't miss the way John's hand moved to his pocket where his new wand was. True, nothing had happened when they went to the shop. The wand had merely sat there in John's palm. But there had been a shift in the air, one that the current Ollivanders did not fail to miss. "Powerful wand," he'd told John, his strange eyes filled with amusement, "But rather shy. It's bidding for the right time."
Which was when?
"But what if I don't get Sorted at all?" John asked.
"Impossible," Hamish replied. He ruffled the boy's hair affectionately. He had been doing more of that lately. He did not know John very well, not like Harry. He hadn't had a chance to. It worried him a little, and the fact that he didn't know what his son was really like was shameful. He wanted John to feel comfortable about this, not just about the wizarding world, but with him.
A bottleneck was beginning to form in front of the barrier. More and more students were arriving with their families. Hamish recognized a few of his colleagues who waved back at him. "Better get going, Dad," Harry told them as pushed her trolley to the platform 9 ¾. A red-haired boy with freckles followed her, probably a Weasley. John was watching them and Hamish took it as a sign that the boy was ready to go.
He let John push the trolley while he walked beside him, one hand on his shoulder as they crossed. John looked a little shaken but that was expected. He had never done it before as his mother hadn't permitted him to see Harry off when she went to Hogwarts. John scanned the crowd for Harry. "Where'd she go?" he asked, moving aside to let a gruff-looking man pass by.
"You know your sister. Always on the go."
Hamish did not find Harry, but he did find someone who knew her quite well. The seventeen-year-old looked at him, recognition flashing across his face. "Mr Watson," Mycroft Holmes drawled. "What a pleasure to see you."
Hamish smiled a little. "Head Boy this year, eh, Mycroft?" The badge was already pinned on the boy's robes. Great, he thought. Mycroft had sent his daughter to detention countless of times in the past. Now that he was Head Boy, he'd probably find a way to expel her. Hamish remembered Mycroft talking to him about Harry the last time he was here. It had not been a pleasant conversation.
"And this is your son? The family resemblance is striking. Funny, I didn't know Harry had a brother." That last one was a downright lie and Hamish knew it. The sentence could be rephrased to I know Harry has a sibling but how come I've never seen him before until now?
"It's complicated." He looked at John who confirmed it with a nod. "Your brother's starting as well, isn't he?"
Hamish had never met Sherlock Holmes, but he knew enough stories about him. They often talked about him in the Ministry where Hamish worked under the Department of International Magical Corporation. They had been able to keep the truth from the wizarding world that the mass blackout eleven years prior had been caused by the then infant Sherlock. The incident had both worried and fascinated them. That was the greatest uncontrolled magic they had ever witnessed, and it had been caused by someone who hadn't even been three hours old at the time. "He might be the next Harry Potter," the Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic had said. It was a good assumption, considering the alternative.
No one really needed to live in fear all over again.
Mycroft raised one eyebrow, no doubt knowing just how curious Hamish was. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, inwardly cursing himself for being a little frightened by someone young enough to be his son. "Ah, yes, my dear brother," Mycroft said, sounding a little weary. "Mummy thought he would have been better suited for Beauxbatons while Father thought he would do well in Durmstrang. Surprisingly, he chose Hogwarts. It must have been the appeal of the castle that made him make up his mind. Not that Hogwarts isn't a good school but there were so many choices.
"He's already on board, I'm afraid. He doesn't like being around me for too long and I must say that I share his feelings. My brother has always been difficult." You should know, his look said. Hamish hastily made an excuse to steer John away from him.
"Who was that, Dad?"
"Just don't make trouble until he graduates and you don't have to worry about him," he muttered. "Promise me I won't have to send you a Howler."
John looked at him confusedly but he nodded. "Promise."
"I reckon I'm in Hufflepuff," Mike Stamford told him as they waited in line. He flashed his too-white teeth at John once more. "How 'bout you? Where'd you think you'll end up?"
All John managed was a shrug. Mike was a good guy and he had quelled John's worries during the train ride, but John was beginning to get tired of his enthusiasm. It was nerves, maybe, or the fact that he was chilled to the bone from the boat ride. The Giant Squid residing in the Great Lake had lifted a tentacle at the wrong time and had splashed ice water at them in the process. John was still freezing and absolutely soaked. He had no idea how Mike, who had been in the boat with him, could dismiss the cold. "C-can't really t-tell," he said, his teeth chattering. "My s-sister's in Gryffindor. Maybe I'll g-go there."
"Hush," the girl standing close to them hissed, "it's starting." John looked over Mike's shoulder to see that the Sorting was about to begin. A wizard in bright yellow robes had pulled up a stool and set it at the front of the Hall. The older students were beginning to quiet down, their eyes trained on the wizard who brought forth a very old hat. The Sorting Hat, John knew. Harry had told him how things worked. You only have to put it on, John, he told himself. This, however, did not calm him down as he'd hoped it would.
He looked at the Gryffindor table. Harry was talking to one of her friends, laughing a little too loudly in John's opinion. A boy he guessed was a prefect shot her a glare which Harry completely ignored. So much for not having Dad send any Howlers this year, he thought grimly.
The wizard produced a long parchment that brushed against the floor. One by one names were called and one by one, students took a seat and donned the Sorting Hat. Most took only a few seconds to be sorted. The respective tables roared every time a student was placed in their House, all but for the Slytherins who did nothing more than clap politely. They were a strange lot.
There was a pause when the wizard scanned the parchment again. After clearing his throat one, twice, the man called, "Holmes, Sherlock!"
Holmes, Sherlock turned out to be a very skinny boy with a curly mass of black hair and the palest skin he had ever seen. There was something about him that drew attention. People were sitting up, craning their necks to get a better view of the skinny boy. John was doing the same, and he could not even tell why.
John was not able to see much of his face as the hat was dropped as soon as the boy sat down. He noted that Holmes, Sherlock was behaving strangely. He sat with his back straight, his hands pressed together as if in prayer. Maybe he was praying. Maybe the hat was saying horrible things to him. John wondered if it would ask him if he knew any spells. God, what if it asked him to execute one? He was still doubting if he even inherited the magical trait despite having been able to enter Hogwarts.
Two whole minutes passed before the hat finally shouted, sounding a little put off, "Slytherin!"
There was no applause this time. The Slytherin table greeted the boy with silence. Holmes, Sherlock did not seem to mind. John caught him glaring at an older boy who sat with the Ravenclaws. John recognized him as the boy his father had talked to a while ago. He seemed displeased.
Hooper, Molly, a Hufflepuff, came next then a few others until Murray, Bill, another one of John's companions in the train and the boat, walked to the stool. He dripped water as he walked then managed to give a cheeky grin before the hat fell on his head. "Gryffindor!" the hat shouted and Bill ran to the cheering students.
Soon enough, it was Mike's turn. The hat declared him a Hufflepuff. The other boy grinned at John encouragingly before he moved to his table.
A few more names were called. John's anxiety grew when they reached the v's: Valensi, Vixen, Von Eupiel. And finally…
"Watson, John!"
Heart pounding, John approached the stool. He heard someone shout his name, followed by a round of giggling. Harry and her friends, no doubt. He saw his sister's face before the hat slipped over his eyes.
"Oh," a voice breathed. It sounded raspy and very old. John knew it was all in his head but he gripped the bottom of the stool for security. "A Watson, but quite different from the last one.
"Let's see…Dear, you're a challenge, aren't you? You have trust issues…hmm, and for a good reason as well. But you're loyal to the people you do trust which makes you suited for Hufflepuff. Clever, too. Your intelligence is above average. Ravenclaw won't be bad for you. I can't see you in Slytherin, though. Not manipulative enough. But ah, Gryffindor…oh, you thirst for adventure, don't you? You want to prove yourself. My, my, we're in for an interesting year."
"Gryffindor!" the hat shouted. John's ears rang when the Gryffindors began to cheer loudly. Harry's popular here, was all he thought as his sister caught him in a headlock.
Gryffindor. He was in Gryffindor, the House for those brave and strong. John could not help but laugh. He did not feel very brave or strong. True, he was rather tough in the Muggle world, but this was Hogwarts. He felt defenceless with all these strangers. Still he put on a smile when Bill moved over to congratulate him.
Sherlock wasn't running exactly. He was just walking quickly, knocking aside fellow students who threw insults at his back. Sherlock paid no attention to them. The only thought running in his mind at the moment was to get away, to put as much distance between him and—
"Stop it, Sherlock." Mycroft put his hand on his shoulder, his fingers gripping him tightly. To move was not an option. The pressure on his shoulder told Sherlock that his brother would not let him go. To move meant pain, and to move also meant Mycroft would just chase after him.
He glared at his older brother until the other boy got his point. The hand was dropped. "Well, spit it out now," he hissed. "And make it quick. I have better things to waste my time with."
"Like what?" Mycroft sneered. "Making your experiments in the Astronomy tower? Dear brother, it's only been a few days but I already know where you've been and what kind of trouble you've been brewing. You should be thankful I'm not putting you in detention right now."
"If that's all—"
"You know that it's not just that." Mycroft fixed him with a look. Of course Sherlock knew and he knew just what was coming next. "Mummy is terribly worried about you and Father's doing his best not to let the Ministry monitor you even more than they already do. If you don't want to be in Slytherin it can easily be arranged for you to move to a different House. Ravenclaw, preferably."
Ravenclaw. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Supposedly, Ravenclaw was the House for the wise and the intelligent but Sherlock had already assessed that none were as smart as him. They were smart when it came to academics, true, but they weren't clever. They didn't know how to use their skills to their advantage. "No," he muttered. He didn't like Slytherin either, especially that absolute imbecile Anderson, but most of them left him alone. They were not as social as the other Houses, and the silence suited Sherlock just fine.
Mycroft sighed. "At least write to Mummy and tell her you haven't turned into a Dark wizard, and that you haven't killed anyone yet. You know how she worries about you and how she keeps thinking the Ministry will take you away whenever you do something unseemly."
"I haven't done anything wrong!"
"Your being placed in Slytherin which has housed more Dark witches and wizards than anyone can remember is enough to worry anyone, especially since your magic is so dangerously unstable, to the point that the Ministry has to monitor your every move lest you accidentally end up killing hundreds of people."
Sherlock glared at him. "Write to her," Mycroft demanded before walking away, leaving him in the hall. A few Second Years had stopped to watch their exchange. Sherlock snarled at them, making one girl drop her books. Idiots, he thought as he climbed the stairs that lead to the Owlery. Warm air greeted him from the windows but he stubbornly pulled his scarf tighter around himself. It was not the standard green and silver of the Slytherins, but a simple blue one which was just a shade lighter than the Ravenclaw colour. Older students and a few of the professors often mistook him for a Ravenclaw because of this but Sherlock still kept it. It was not because he was being sentimental. Merlin, he would never be caught dead for having such mundane things as feelings. No, the scarf was merely warmer than the one that was part of his uniform and was much more comfortable.
A few of the birds took flight as he searched the room. Some glared at him from beneath their wings while others hooted indignantly. He was not well loved by animals. They could undoubtedly smell the frog (rana clamitans) he had just dissected a while ago. Curious, Sherlock reached for one of the barn owls (tyto alba). It snapped its beak at him and had he been a split second too late in retrieving his hand, he would have lost a finger.
"There you are, you stupid bird," Sherlock muttered when he finally spotted the raven (corvus corax) perched on one of the roosts, quite out of place in a room full of owls. The black bird had been given to him on his eleventh birthday and though Sherlock did not like it very well, he had to admit they were similar in ways. The raven (he had not bothered to give it a name because names were irrelevant, especially to animals) was just as stubborn as him and it proved this when it took flight just as Sherlock touched it.
"Get back here!" he growled, making a grab for his wand.
"Oi, what do you think you're doing?"
Sherlock turned around. A boy had entered the room. First Year, Gryffindor, blond hair, blue eyes, family resemblance to Harriet Watson who is famous for being a delinquent, short of stature, ate a sandwich a while ago judging from the smear of ketchup and mayonnaise on the front of his shirt, left handed as can be seen from the way his hand moves to his pocket where his wand is kept…Sherlock trailed off his deductions. "You're not going to hurt that bird, are you?" the boy asked, his brows knit in confusion. Loves animals, Sherlock thought.
"Of course not," he said, sounding a little sharp. "Father would send me a Howler if I did. This one's mine." But it sure didn't act that way. The raven cawed at him before seeking refuge behind a sleeping owl. Sherlock gritted his teeth. He was becoming more and more tempted to not write to his mother. But Mycroft would just keep nagging him if he didn't do it.
"Oh. Well, okay." Sherlock watched as the boy chose one of the school owls. The bird hooted at him in greeting, sounding almost fond. The boy smiled as he took out a crumpled letter from his pocket and tied it to the leg of the owl. He made it look so easy.
Sherlock glared at his pet once more. The raven merely cocked its head to the side. Stupid bird.
Better write the letter first, he thought. He took out his wand and produced a parchment and quill out of thin air. "No way," he heard the boy say. Sherlock looked at him. "I mean, non-verbal magic? I don't know much but Harry tells me that it's really advanced."
"It's quite easy," Sherlock drawled. He scanned the boy quickly. "She's not going to write back to you, you know."
Ah. That got him. The boy visibly froze. "What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice and posture tense.
"Your mother."
"How do you know I'm writing to my mother?"
"You can't be writing to your father. The sweatshirt you're currently wearing says Harvard which I know is a Muggle school. Your father is Muggle-born and probably inherited the shirt from a relative but gave it to you so you can feel secure in a new environment. It is possible that both of your parents are Muggles but it is unlikely considering the fact that both you and your sister have magical traits which rarely happens if both parents are non-magical. Your sister also wears shirts like that whenever she can which means that her relationship with your father is clearly stronger than with your mother. Why? Your mother's a Muggle and no doubt did not take the news well when you were accepted to Hogwarts. The knees of your trousers have been patched but not recently meaning that the person who used to stitch them for you is no longer present in your life. Your parents are divorced probably because your father did not tell her immediately that he was a wizard. Your relationship with your mother is strong—or was—as can be seen from your patched up clothing which means that you've lived with her more, possibly because you showed little to no signs of being a wizard which I can deduce from the way you keep putting your hand in your pocket where your wand is as if you can't believe it's actually there. You feel guilty because you don't know who to choose anymore. Your father or your mother. I say you should choose your father because I am quite sure your mother's views on you have changed since you got your letter."
Sherlock stopped when he saw the expression on the boy's face. It was a cross between anger and humiliation. "Not good?" he asked.
"Bit not good," the boy muttered. Sherlock watched as he let the owl go then stalked off without another look at him. Sherlock felt an odd twinge in his gut but dismissed it as hunger. He wrote his letter hastily in his neat script then reread it to check if he had been too blunt.
Mother,
You need not worry about me constantly. I am fine and so far, I have not caused too much trouble. I have continued making my experiments but no one has caught me and Mycroft isn't telling any of the professors. I assure you that I will not put too much attention on myself (a lie but his mother needed to be reassured) and that I will control my magic constantly. As for school classes are frightfully dull and my professors do not know what to make of me. Tell Father this. He will no doubt be amused by what he calls my 'peculiarities'.
-SH
No sentimentalities at all. Good. His mother wouldn't mind. That was just him being him. He folded the parchment neatly then made a move toward the raven. "Now get back here, you imbecile," he hissed then lunged.
Ugh. Wrong. Again.
John sighed in frustration as he picked up the soda can and righted it once more. He looked at Bill who grinned slightly. "Come on, mate," he said as he brushed back the too long straggly brown hair from his forehead. "It ain't that hard."
John scowled at him but said nothing. No, it wasn't hard to Bill Murray who had five older brothers who'd all gone to Hogwarts before him, who was born in a proper wizarding family with both parents there for him, and who'd never once doubted that he belonged in the wizarding community. John gripped his wand tightly. He did not feel the familiar comforting buzz in it. He had half a mind to chuck it across the room and never see it again.
"One more try?" Bill said. He pushed his sleeves back then said clearly, "Expelliarmus!"
His can fell off the table with a clang. Professor Parkins patted Bill's shoulder. "Nice clean shot there, Murray," he praised before he moved to another pair.
"Okay, John, you're turn."
You can do this, John. He pursed his lips and stared at the can hard. He knew the proper wrist movement, could recite the incantation clearly. It was just the execution that was the problem. But unfortunately for him, the execution was the most important. "Expelliarmus!" he cried, pointing the wand at the can. The can was jostled to the side but it didn't fall. A weak shot. John did not have to look at Bill's face to know how ridiculous he'd been.
"Expelliarmus!"
They whipped their heads just in time to see one can fly across the room. It hit the wall where it made a large dent. The can rolled to Professor Parkins' feet, smoking and black around the bottom. "That was quite remarkable, Mr Holmes!" the professor squeaked. "And quite deadly, I must say." Their teacher laughed nervously as he eyed the bored-looking Slytherin.
John gritted his teeth when Sherlock's eyes met his. It had been three days since their meeting in the Owlery, and in the event of those three days, Sherlock had somehow gotten himself in detention (apparently, he managed to blow up six cauldrons while everyone was asleep). It was just John's luck that his form of detention was to help tutor the other First Years in Defence Against the Dark Arts, a subject that was not the strong point of many.
"You need help," Sherlock said when he approached him. It was a statement, not a question. John looked at Bill's confused face and shook his head. He would tell him why he was so furious later. Right now he had to deal with the problem.
"You lack confidence, Watson," Sherlock muttered. "You have to believe you can actually do it so that the spell will be stronger."
"Oh, and I guess your overconfidence is what makes each of your spells pretty strong?" John bit back. From his peripheral vision, he saw Bill raise his brow. John glanced at him. Not your fight, mate, was what his look said. Bill seemed to get it anyway because he left the two of them to assist Ella.
Sherlock didn't seem to find it an insult because he merely nodded. "I'm getting rather bored and I've been forced to assist every incompetent person in this room but for you. If I can make you perform well enough I'm free to go."
Incompetent? John knew he wasn't good when it came to executing spells. He was good in Potions and Herbology and all the other classes that did not require him to use a wand and recite an incantation. But nobody had dared say it out loud, save for a few Slytherins who just wanted to get on his nerve. Those Slytherins annoyed him, sure, but something about the way Sherlock said it made him bloody furious.
He was gripping his wand so hard that it hurt. Damn Holmes. Damn him and his creepy eyes and his stupid knowing smile. Damn it if his father sent him a Howler. John was going to hit him so hard he wouldn't be able to smell anything through a broken nose for a whole month.
Okay. He was raising his fist now. He was definitely going for it.
Something did knock Sherlock over but it wasn't his fist. Blood welled from where the can had hit Sherlock's temple. Did he do that? John stared at the open-mouthed Slytherin. But he hadn't even done anything. He'd been gripping his wand but he hadn't raised it. Panic seized him and he looked at Sherlock helplessly.
"What happened here?" Professor Parkins asked, pushing aside some curious Gryffindors. He blanched visibly when he saw Sherlock sitting on the ground with blood running down his face. "Watson!" he said sharply, noticing that John was holding his wand which, though not raised, was pointed at Sherlock. "I can't believe you did that! I will dock fifty points from Gryffindor for this display of violence!"
"It wasn't John's fault, sir," Bill piped in. "I saw everything. He didn't even raise his wand!"
"It was merely a miscalculation, Professor," Sherlock said smoothly as he rose. John stared at him, wondering whether or not the other boy was actually joking. But he seemed serious and even added, "It was my fault. A bit too much. The can ricocheted off the wall and hit me."
Professor Parkins looked torn between wanting to slap a detention on John and helping Sherlock. In the end he chose neither. "You should go to the Infirmary and have that treated," he said. "As for the rest of you, back to training!"
"Was that me?" John asked as Sherlock magicked his injury away, the Infirmary be damned. "Did I do that?"
"Yes. Surprisingly." Sherlock was looking at him now with interest. It was disconcerting. John fidgeted under his gaze and looked over his shoulder for Bill. But his friend had taken interest in someone else and was currently laughing over a joke Kylie Mathews said. He turned his attention back to Sherlock.
"Surprisingly?"
"Once the Trace makes itself official which is when you receive formal training, it's hard to let uncontrolled magic slip." Sherlock paused then smiled. It was almost imperceptible but John saw the corners of his lips twitch upwards. "But not for a powerful wizard."
John bit his lip and backed away. When he looked up again, Sherlock Holmes was gone.
"Ready for another round?" Bill asked, startling him.
"Huh? Oh, right." He looked at the can which had now been placed back on the table. Confidence? Was that all it took? John took a deep breath. "Expelliarmus!"
The can soared across the room, hitting the wall, though it did not leave an impression like when with Sherlock. Still, it was surprising. He got a few appraising looks from his peers. "Good shot, Watson," Professor Parkins commented.
Bill grinned at him, his eyes wide. "How'd you do that?"
John shrugged. "No idea."
A/N: The next chapter skips to their Fourth year. I want to keep this as fast-paced as possible but not overly so. Haha, whatever. I made some serious thinking in their Houses. At first, I thought John suited Hufflepuff, but from the way the Sorting hat said it, it sounds as if the Hufflepuffs are just too nice. And while John is made of kittens he's also a bamf. Gryffindors are reckless and always thirsting for adventure and John's an adrenaline junkie. As for Sherlock I thought of putting him in Ravenclaw but Ravenclaws are supposedly wise and as smart as Sherlock is, well, he's kind of reckless and lacks ethics. Slytherins are cunning and are skilled in manipulating people and making bad things work for them which is how Sherlock is most of the time. I also thought of putting Mycroft in Slytherin but then there won't be much conflict. That's just my opinion but I'm pretty sure some of you think that John should be in Hufflepuff and that Sherlock should be in Ravenclaw, but well, we all have different views. As for the others (you'll see them in the next chapter) Lestrade and Sally are in Gryffindor while Sarah is in Ravenclaw. As for Mrs Hudson, don't worry, I haven't omitted her in this story because merlin knows what we'll do without Mrs Hudson guiding 'her boys'.
