A/N: So, it seems I'd forgotten about 's unfortunate habit of deleting all my page breaks- sorry about that! Hopefully it's fixed this time :) As previously stated, chapters 2-5 of this story are way too long to be submitted in one part, so they'll be divided up accordingly. This, then, is Chapter 2, Part 1! If you'd rather read the whole chapter as it was written, you'll have to wait until tomorrow :P
I think this will be the controversial chapter though, everyone seems to disagree about the Houses they should be in… this is just my opinion, and what works best for the story. Onward!
Chapter Two- Part 1/2
September, 1963
The next time John met the Holmes', it was at King's Cross on 1st September. John and his mother were standing on Platform 9 at ten to eleven, with his school trunk, trying not to notice the conspicuous lack of anyone else who looked like a student. His mother had pulled out the Hogwarts letter again, reading it for the fifth time in the past half an hour.
"We're in the wrong place." John said, flatly.
"I don't see where else it could be." His mother replied. "This is platform 9, and we're even three-quarters of the way along it…"
"We should have come down with Sherlock and his brother." John said grumpily, although he knew that it would have been impossible. He had been up to the house on the hill a few times over the last few days, only to find the imposing gates shut up tight and no answer when he tugged on the ancient bell pull that didn't seem to connect to anything. They were alone.
"I'll try asking the guard again." His mother sighed. "Though he gave me an odd enough look before… oh!" John turned to see what had surprised her, and couldn't help breaking out into a grin when he saw the Holmes' approaching, Sherlock's untidy mop of curls immediately recognisable. Mycroft sauntered up to John's mother.
"Good morning, Mrs Watson." He said, shaking her hand. "I am Mycroft Holmes, I'm acquainted with your son. Sherlock was very agitated when he didn't see John on the platform. We supposed we might find you here."
"So this isn't the right place after all; I didn't think it could be." Mrs Watson said. "But John's letter said platform nine and three-quarters, so I assumed…"
"Our world is very different to yours, Mrs Watson." Mycroft replied. "Assume nothing." He produced a large pocket watch and checked the time. "Now, we don't have long, so if you would come this way…"
As his mother and Mycroft drew ahead, his mother pulling out her purse to repay Mycroft for John's school kit, John hung back beside Sherlock.
"Was your brother born middle aged?" He asked in a whisper. Sherlock laughed and John realised that the thing around Sherlock's pale neck, which John had taken to be a rather poorly chosen scarf was, in fact, a living thing, lazily pulling itself back into position. Specifically, it was a cream-coloured ferret.
"What's that?" John asked.
"It's a cat." Sherlock answered.
"No it isn't." John replied, as the ferret blinked innocent brown eyes at him. "It's a ferret."
"No, it's a cat." Sherlock said, flatly.
"Sherlock, that's a ferret."
"John, please just indulge him." Mycroft sighed from in front. "It's not worth the effort, I assure you."
"But… it's a ferret. The letter said you could only have an owl, a toad, or a cat. I don't think they'll let him keep a ferret."
"Of course not." Mycroft said. "Why do you think he's saying it's a cat? Here we are."
John looked, but they didn't seem to be anywhere, just standing on the concourse between platforms 9 and 10. He couldn't see any other students around, either. His mother seemed as confused as he was.
"Are you sure, Mycroft?" She asked, diplomatically, glancing anxiously at the station clock.
"Excuse me, Mrs Watson?" Sherlock stepped forward.
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"Sorry, but it's easier this way." He didn't sound very sorry. Before John could do anything, Sherlock shoved his mother hard and Mrs Watson simply disappeared.
Sherlock laughed, but stopped abruptly when John grabbed his collar, sending the ferret/cat scurrying away in alarm. Mycroft grabbed it with an expression of distaste.
"What did you do?!" John demanded.
"Nothing, she's fine."
"She's not fine, she's gone! Was that magic?! What have you done?!"
"John, please don't cause a scene." Mycroft sighed. "She really is fine."
"Shut up, Mycroft!"
Sherlock burst out laughing. Mycroft pulled a rather sour face. Clearly he wasn't used to being told to shut up by anyone other than Sherlock.
"It's not funny!" John shouted. "What did you do to my mom?!"
"This." Sherlock answered, suddenly heaving them both sideways, towards the solid brick of a support column. Except it wasn't solid, and they fell right through it, staggering onto another platform on the other side. John, regaining his footing, gaped open mouthed. Magic, and he hadn't even sensed it. His mother was there, and came over to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. John could see that she was trying not to laugh, and was glad she had found Sherlock's tactics amusing rather than offensive seeing as he didn't expect she would be getting an apology any time soon. A second later Mycroft appeared through the archway behind them, looking disgruntled, puffing a little as he pulled John's trunk. Sherlock's was apparently already on the train.
A fine train it was too. As Sherlock reclaimed and fussed over his ferret, John couldn't take his eyes off the sleek red steam engine. It had been a while since he had seen a proper steam engine here, they had decommissioned Mallard earlier in the year before his return to England. Anyway, the steam trains he remembered from his childhood were always old things, within months of being taken away, lumbering and slow, filthy and falling apart. This was a fine engine; it looked proud and brand new, and, somehow, he knew it wouldn't be slow. It had Hogwarts Express written on it, after all. Express it would be, he was sure.
The platform was beginning to empty because the train was getting ready to leave. All around, parents were giving last pieces of advice, giving one last hug; John's included. As he half-listened to his mother, he realised Sherlock really didn't have his parents with him, just Mycroft. To John's surprise, Mycroft reached out and ruffled his younger brother's hair, telling he didn't expect much, but he'd be grateful if Sherlock would at least try to be good sometimes. Sherlock just shoved him off and disappeared onto the train, but John smiled at this small sign of affection. He kissed his mother's cheek, promised to be good, to work hard, to write frequently and be careful, and then followed Sherlock onto the train, eventually finding him in a compartment right at the end of the train, where no-one else had bothered to walk to. Sherlock looked up when he came in, looked like he wanted to say something, but then didn't, sulkily encouraging the ferret to chase his finger. John went to the nearest door, waved to his mother, who with Mycroft's help brought his trunk over. John dragged it in and a guard came to shut the door. A moment later, the train began to pull away. John waved to his mother for as long as he could still see her, alarmed to realise that she was starting to cry. She really was all alone now. He wondered if he had done the right thing.
"Need a hand with your trunk, do you?" Said a cheerful voice, popping out of one of the compartments. "Where are you sitting?"
"Oh, just down there, thanks." John smiled, taking one end of the trunk. The boy looked a year or two older than him, in the awkward and dreaded stage of adolescence when his limbs were gangly and out of proportion, and his skin beneath his firey hair was covered in spots. Still, he had a friendly smile, and John was grateful to him as he lifted one end of his case and the older the boy the other, leaving it on a slant.
"Are you a first year? I'm just about to start third. Name is Arthur Weasley. How do you do?"
"John Watson." John replied, trying not to puff too much. The wooden chest was heavy, even between them. "Pleased to meet you."
Between them they got the trunk into the very end compartment, where Arthur, standing on one of the seats, managed to get it up into the overhead rack.
"Thank you." John said. "Oh, this is my… this is Sherlock Holmes." Saying 'friend' just hadn't seemed right. He wasn't sure how he should describe Sherlock.
"Oh, are you Mycroft's little brother? He was head boy last year. He was alright."
Sherlock ignored him. Annoyed by his rudeness, John continued his introductions to try and cover it up. "Sherlock, this is Arthur Weasley."
Sherlock ignored him.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock looked up, examining Arthur, who smiled a little uncomfortably under his scrutiny. "You're dull." He informed him. "Go away."
Arthur left.
"Sherlock, that was really rude." John flopped down onto the opposite side of the compartment, trying to look disapproving rather than amused.
"You told my brother to shut up."
"Oh… yes, sorry about that, but you had just pushed my mom over so…"
"No, no," Sherlock protested. "You told Mycroft to shut up, and he did! It was brilliant!"
This was the first compliment Sherlock ever paid him and there would be precious few to follow in the years to come. John couldn't help but grin. It had been a good moment. Maybe he should have introduced Sherlock as his friend after all.
Nobody else came to join them as they continued on their journey towards Hogwarts, perhaps because they were sitting so far down the train, perhaps because Sherlock glared at anyone who happened to pass by in the hall. John didn't mind. Sherlock was in a talkative mood, and had been telling John fascinating things about the wizard world and his own home town. He was, John was starting to realise, remarkably clever, a quick thinker and very observant. Sometimes he got impatient if John hadn't followed his erratic train of thought, but John soon realised that flattery was the way to calm him down. It probably wasn't good to further inflate his ego, but John decided he would search for a better method when he knew Sherlock a little more.
Eventually, the conversation turned inevitably to the ferret, who had been busily climbing up the curtains. Sherlock made no move to stop it, watching its progress with interest.
"So what's up with the ferret?" John asked.
"Her name is Agatha. And she's a cat."
"Agatha." John corrected himself. "Have you always had a ferret?"
Sherlock shook his head, making his hair more unruly than ever. "She was a gift off my grandmother. That's where we were last week, we were visiting her in Paris. She gave me Agatha to celebrate starting Hogwarts."
"Why a ferret?" John asked. "Sorry, a cat."
Sherlock shrugged. "Her brother was an artist." He said, as if this explained everything, and the two of them watched as Agatha made it to the top of the curtain and wandered along the rail.
John tried to work out what he meant and gave up, unsure what significance ferrets had to art. "So?" He asked.
Sherlock looked at him with a surprised expression that would, over time, become irritatingly familiar, as if shocked that John didn't get it. "Art in the blood." He said. "It breeds eccentrics."
John thought about all that he had seen of Sherlock and Mycroft and felt inclined to agree.
"My grandmother," Sherlock continued with a grin. "Is a private detective. Scrying spells are her speciality. Scrying and finding spells." He paused, thinking. "And explosions."
John made a mental note to stay out of Paris and wondered if Sherlock took very strongly after his grandmother. The idea of a little old lady version of his new friend made him smile, and he thought he might like to visit after all.
"She taught us a game when we were little." Sherlock said, warily. John could tell he wasn't sure about telling him this and so smiled as encouragingly as he could. Sherlock continued. "An observation and deduction game."
"What? Like spying?"
"No, John, thinking." Sherlock scowled, disappointed, and sunk back into his seat, staring sulkily out of the window. Clearly John had said the wrong thing and one wrong thing was enough to make Sherlock change his mind about telling him. Sighing, John sat back himself. This could be a very long journey. When Agatha climbed back down the curtains and settled into John's lap, Sherlock glared at her like she was a traitor. John petted her defiantly, glad to have one person in the carriage who wasn't in a mood with him for no reason.
"Arthur." Sherlock said, abruptly, petulantly.
"What about him?"
"He has at least two brothers, he's obsessed with muggles, not academically bright, but bless him, he does try hard, and he fancies a girl who is older than him."
John blinked. "Do you know him?"
Sherlock gave him a look that was, if possible, even blacker than before. "No. I just won." With that, he went back to looking out of the window. The atmosphere weighed down on them.
Sherlock's sulking aside, the trip was reasonably enjoyable. Agatha was a lively creature always ready to play, chasing fingers or little pieces of paper, and the scenery that was rolling past outside was always changeable and interesting. When they started going through mountains, John really had to wonder if they were even still in England, but decided not to think too deeply about it. Then there was the food. His mother had done him a packed lunch, of course, but then a young woman with a kind smile had appeared with a trolley full of food he had never seen before, all different kinds of sweets with bizarre names. He had a small amount of wizard money that his mother had exchanged with Mycroft while settling their bill at King's Cross, but the unfamiliar coins felt strange in his hand and he had to ask the lady to explain them so he could work out what he could buy. As it turned out, he had enough for two or three items. He avoided the every flavour beans, figuring that magical or not, jelly beans were jelly beans and elected instead for a pumpkin pastry and some caramelised dew-clovers. He was about to settle on some bubble gum that promised to make bubbles that could float away across the room to conclude his little spree when Sherlock piped up with "Get a chocolate frog."
This was the first time Sherlock had spoken in over an hour, so John decided to just do what he said. He paid for his purchases and the woman left. Sherlock was watching him now with guarded interest. He told John to open the frog. Wondering what was so interesting about frog-shaped chocolate, and hoping it wasn't an actual chocolate-coated frog, John did so. The frog jumped out. John, startled, jumped too and Sherlock laughed. The two of them watched, fascinated, as the frog leapt around their compartment. John couldn't help laughing with delight. The fun was cut short when Agatha pounced on the frog and proceeded to eat it; but John had to admit, it was a very good catch.
"What card did you get?" Sherlock asked, nodding at the discarded packet. John, mystified, ripped it further open and found there was indeed a trading card in the bottom. It had some sort of plant on it.
"Gillyweed." He read.
"Common." Sherlock said in disgust.
"Common?"
"They're trading cards. People collect them. Every five years or so they bring out a new set. Last time they did Cauldrons through the Ages and no-one bothered. They're hoping more people will collect these. Magical plants and fungus."
John couldn't imagine collecting trading cards of magical plants and fungus, but he pocketed it anyway. It reminded him strongly of the cigarette cards he used to get off his dad. He had almost assembled the entire Chelsea squad. He felt a little stab inside him when he realised he probably wouldn't ever finish it now; his mother smoked the wrong brand. He decided he would collect these frog cards. His dad would have found them funny.
"So do you collect them?" John asked.
"No, I memorise them and discard them." Sherlock answered, as if this was standard. John hoped and suspected it wasn't before getting distracted eating his pumpkin pastry. It was an unusual combination of flavours, but not necessarily a bad one. Realising Sherlock wasn't eating anything, he offered him a piece. Sherlock turned it down, as he did the other sweets, and even John's ham-and-pickle sandwiches. However, in John's lunchbox there was a packet of Smarties, which fascinated Sherlock as much as the wizard sweets had John, so John gave them up willingly. Sherlock emptied them out onto the lid of John's lunchbox and proceeded to arrange them by colour before eating them in different orders and combinations, apparently to see if they tasted discernibly different from one another. He seemed happy, so John left him to it, promising to get him more 'muggle sweets' in future.
Just as they finished the confectionary, Arthur's face appeared around the door again. "Just thought you'd want to know we're nearly there." He said, cheerily. "You might want to get your robes on."
"Thank you, that's very kind." John answered, not bothering to add that it was particularly kind given how rude Sherlock had been before. Arthur nodded at him and was about to withdraw when he noticed the Smarties box.
"Oh, goodness, are those muggle sweets? How do they get the chocolate inside the shells?" Arthur looked like he would like to have a closer look at the few remaining Smarties, but before he could, Sherlock had scooped them all up into his mouth and began rolling the tube over the seat for Agatha. Giving up, Arthur shook his head and left in exasperation, clearly peeved.
"Sherlock." John sighed. "If you've never met him, what do you have against him?"
"He's boring."
"You don't know that."
"Yes I do. Almost everyone is. That's why I don't waste my time on other people."
"What about me?"
"You aren't boring."
The words pleased John perhaps more than they should have done, and he smiled as he pulled his school robes on over his shirt and trousers.
By the time he reached the castle, John felt he had seen enough amazing things to last a lifetime. After getting off the train, he had witnessed horseless carriages lining themselves up to receive students, without anything pulling them or directing them at all. He had been so agog at this that he had almost missed the man calling for the first years; although missing him would have been rather difficult as the man was a good eight or nine feet tall, at least. Probably more. John was sure he felt the whole platform quake when he bellowed in a Black Country accent for the first years to gather round. They did so rather hurriedly and were shepherded onto a lot of little wooden boats. John smiled briefly at the two girls that ended up getting in with them, but was soon distracted by the boats setting off, again on their own, across a wide lake to where, at the top of the hill, glowing in the dark, was a stunning castle. John hadn't been able to take his eyes off it, knowing somehow that this was something he would never see again, no matter how many times he saw Hogwarts. He had wanted the moment to last forever. So, as they filed through the entry way and up some stairs to the door of what had to be the Great Hall, John was sure nothing inside could be as impressive as everything he had seen outside. He was wrong. After the severe-looking Professor McGonagall had introduced herself and the requirements of the four houses, they were shuffled into alphabetical order and went in procession into the hall. The long tables and the floating candles, the colourful school banners and the sea of people would all have been enough to impress John, even before he saw the enchanted ceiling. Or the singing hat.
Once the first years had been lined up, a tall stool had been placed on the stage, and on the stool, an old hat. The entire hall had immediately died down, falling silent when it had been brought out, even though to John it looked like nothing but a dirty old hat, faded and patched. Then a rip had opened up and the hat began to sing:
"Slytherin and Gryffindor,
Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw,
Our proud Hogwarts Houses four,
Each different in the things they prize
To find inside young wizard's minds
In Slytherin it's blood that tests
Each new wizard's worth.
Ambition and quick-thinking bests
All other virtues on Earth.
But in Gryffindor they disagreed.
There it's all about the heart,
There bravery and noble deeds
Are deemed life's most vital part.
At this a Ravenclaw may scoff,
For there they prize the brain;
Intelligence is all deserving of
Rewards, glory or fame.
Dear Hufflepuffs at this would smile,
For more than honour or gold,
They know hard work will go the extra mile
And love and loyalty give riches a hundred-fold.
Now, if you're feeling at a loss,
Don't panic, don't make a fuss
Pop me on, I'm always just
And when I've looked inside you'll find
Yourself put with others of your kind
And with time you will find that
You'll bless the Hogwarts Sorting Hat!"
The hat finished singing, bending its tip a little in a kind of bow. John clapped and cheered along with the rest of the hall; he hadn't thought much of the tune, but, credit where it was due, it was being performed by a hat. From further up the queue, Sherlock looked back and grinned at him. John grinned back. Sherlock had been right, it was better to have it as a surprise. Now, though, it was time for the sorting to begin properly. John still had no idea what was going to happen. He envied Sherlock his position somewhere in the middle of the line. Far enough back that you could see what to do and knew what to expect, but not so far back that the wait was agonising. John himself, as a W, had been relegated right to the back, with only a Wilson, Weaver and Yates behind him. Almost everyone would be sorted before him. John just wished they would get on with it.
Still, all in all, it seemed straight forward. Each student in turn went up to the front, where the Sorting Hat would be put on their head, and after a varying amount of time, presumably as the hat deliberated over which house to put them in, it would be announced and the student would take their new place. Over no-one did the hat hesitate longer than over Sherlock. He took his place on the stool, staring out defiantly. Everyone else had shut their eyes, but no, not Sherlock. He stared out impassively over the hall, for so long that John wondered how he had the nerve. Even the teachers shifted uncertainly, as if worried that this would go on so long they would have to give up. John recalled Sherlock's conversation with Mycroft and wondered if he really was telling it not to put him in Slytherin. Finally, after what seemed like forever but was later revealed to be seventeen minutes, the hat made its decision.
"Ravenclaw!" It bellowed, followed by loud applause from the Ravenclaw table. Bedecked in blue and silver, they seemed quite satisfied that the longest sorting in Hogwarts History had ended up in their house. John thought vaguely that they didn't know what they were getting themselves in for, smiling at Sherlock as he passed. He tried to remember what the hat had said about Ravenclaws. Already the exact words were slipping out of his head, but he was sure it was something about cleverness bringing glory. He wondered if he would be able to get in. He had, after all, been smart enough to pass his 11+ and get into a grammar school. But wizards might have a very different standard to muggles, and he knew nothing about their world. Suddenly a very uncomfortable thought occurred to him. Maybe he was too stupid for this place. Maybe the hat would realise it and say it had all been a mistake. Maybe he would be sitting there, even longer than Sherlock was, for hours, until one of the teachers pulled it off him and apologised for the mistake before sending him home.
John took a deep breath. He knew he was being silly, and reminded himself that he had never been prone to panic. He calmed himself, knowing that if there had been some mistake it would have been found out by now; and no-one was being sat there as long as Sherlock, who had given up the stool at last to a shy, nervous looking girl named 'Hooper, Molly', who looked even more nervous after the boy's record-breaking performance. John thought she might chew right through her lip, her eyes screwed tightly shut the whole time the hat was thinking. Even so, it only took two minutes for the hat to place her in Gryffindor. There were the usual claps and cheers as she walked, wobbly with relief, to the table draped in red and gold, but John could see some surprise and mutterings at the table. He supposed they were thinking the same thing as him, that Molly hadn't seen particularly brave. He felt relieved that the hat obviously made allowances for nerves. He made up his mind to try asking if he could be in Ravenclaw with Sherlock- if he could work out how you asked, as so far nobody had seemed to do anything- but, he had to be honest, it was the lion banners that drew him. Mycroft and Sherlock had both said he would end up in Gryffindor, of course, and the peculiar sixth sense inside him seemed to agree. Still, the school seemed to think he showed the promise of being in Hufflepuff. He looked over to their table. They seemed a friendly bunch, and he could probably be happy there. Even so, 'hard work' just didn't sound as exciting as 'bravery and noble deeds'. His mom would be in Hufflepuff though, he thought with a smile. And his father would have been in Gryffindor, without a doubt. He felt a little pang of sadness again but pushed it aside, forcing his focus back on the sorting. 'Moran, Sebastian' was put into Gryffindor, and was succeeded by 'Moriarty, James'. Again, the hat was silent. Nervous laughter and whispers began around the hall. Like Sherlock, James was looking out at the hall, his eyes open. Unlike Sherlock, who had seemed bored, James looked like he was trying not to laugh. His eyes twinkled with mirth. He looked like the sort of person you could have fun with. Ten minutes or more passed. John looked over at Sherlock, who, now seated at the Ravenclaw table, was watching with something like actual interest. Sherlock had just set the record, now it seemed James was heading to break it.
He didn't make it. This time, the hat made its decision after thirteen minutes, putting James into Slytherin. He didn't seem to mind, getting up and bowing good naturedly to Sherlock, a pantomime of graceful defeat, to the laughter and applause of the hall. John saw Sherlock nod his head in return, actually smiling slightly. Later, he would tell John he had known James was going to be interesting. James took his seat with the Slytherins and the sorting continued at a more steady pace.
Finally, the unfortunately named 'Waters, River' was being sorted, and John realised it was his turn next. River was a dreamy looking girl with tanned skin and long red hair that curled all down her back and a chain of flowers around her wrist; clearly with parents who were forerunners of the hippy movement. She was sorted into Hufflepuff and floated off, beaming. John realised then with a jolt that it was his turn and he had been so distracted that he hadn't psyched himself at all. Still, when Professor McGonagall called out 'Watson, John', he smoothed his face to look as composed as possible and stepped up to take his turn. He was pleased to see his nerves hadn't transmitted to his hands, which were completely steady, not trembling at all. He glanced over to the Ravenclaw table. Sherlock was watching. John looked away first, but stared at the doors into the hall. He was determined to keep his eyes open, no matter how long the hat took. He didn't think Sherlock would respect him if he didn't.
John's mind was racing. He knew he had only seconds to work out what he was going to say to the hat, how he was going to present his case. But did he really want to be in Ravenclaw? He wanted to stick with Sherlock, but there was something about Gryffindor-
In the end, none of it mattered. The brim of the hat barely grazed his head, McGonagall hadn't even had time to take her hand away before the hat shouted "Gryffindor!".
John sat, dazed, as the hall exploded into laughter. In the same sorting, they seemed to have had the longest deliberations and what had to be one of the shortest. He wasn't even sure if the hat had touched his head. He was so surprised to find it was all over that McGonagall had to prompt him to leave and take his seat, causing another wave of laughter. However, it wasn't unkind, and the Gryffindors- who had been by far the rowdiest table throughout- whooped and cheered so loudly it was almost deafening. They seemed as determined to celebrate this short sorting as the Ravenclaws had been to celebrate a long one. Anyone would have thought he had scored Chelsea's winning goal on cup final day. John couldn't help smiling back at them as he went and took his place, even though he knew he really hadn't done anything.
For a minute he was engulfed in a blur of shaking hands and pats on the back, then he looked over at his friend. Sherlock was looking rather smug and pleased with himself, obviously glad to have been proven right. A glance over at the staff table rewarded him with a little wave from Professor Sprout, who seemed slightly disappointed but was smiling anyway. John smiled back. Somehow, he could just tell, he was going to be happy here.
The final three students were sorted, producing two new Hufflepuffs and a Slytherin, and the stool and hat were removed. After that, the headmaster, a Professor Dumbledore, stood up and waved his hands for silence. He got it, immediately. John wondered what he was like, if he was the sort of headteacher that people obeyed out of respect or out of fear. When Dumbledore spoke, he realised it was neither of these things. It was because they liked him.
"Welcome, welcome, welcome!" He said, gesturing expansively behind his greying beard. "Welcome, one and all, to another year at our dear old Hogwarts. As usual, I am obliged to remind you to please remain outside of the Forbidden Forest, as, after all, the clue is in the name…" John couldn't help looking at Sherlock when Dumbledore said this. His eyes had lit up alarmingly. John looked away quickly as Dumbledore continued "And this year's list of banned items, which continues to be a riveting read, is available to all on request from the caretaker's office, if anyone needs some ideas for mischief. Whether this is your first year with us or your last, I do hope you all will make this another year to remember. Work hard, stuff your empty heads full of knowledge! After all, what use is a long summer break if you have nothing to forget during it? Treasure your friendships and your fun; be young as long as possible! Enjoy yourselves! Delight yourself with knowledge and then you can delight yourself again ignoring it! But for now, I suggest we delight ourselves with what will be, no doubt, another mouth-watering feast."
No sooner had he said this and sat down did the promised feast materialise, melting into existence, piled high with breads, meats, pastries, soups, savouries, and all manner of foods. John sat marvelling, not even sure where to start.
"Goodness me, what did you do?" Arthur was sat a few seats up the bench, and he nodded at the plates directly in front of John. John looked and found that the platters near him had been filled with rice, noodles, fish and curry broths, all the kinds of local foods he had lived on and loved in Hong Kong, that he had been missing since his return to England, where the only local Chinese takeaway had racist slurs graffited onto the walls and the food tasted nothing like authentic.
"I… I don't know." John stammered, lamely. "I didn't do anything. Not on purpose. I used to live in Hong Kong… Sorry."
"Don't be sorry, it looks delicious!" Arthur answered, and John barely had time to sample a little of the oriental delights himself before the plates disappeared up the table, being shared around. Not that it mattered. After he had cleared his noodles, which were perfect, he moved onto the British dishes. Each of them was entirely perfect. Having grown up in family barracks, with communal kitchens and mess halls, where the women would cook simple meals for fifty people, John had never eaten like this. He wanted to try everything, but forced himself to pace himself.
"Hello." A little voice said to him. John looked up and realised the shy girl was sitting opposite him, the one who had been sorted after Sherlock. He smiled.
"Hello."
"You're John Watson, aren't you? They told me to look out for you, my daddy was in the army too. He was stationed in Northern Ireland, until… my name's Molly, by the way. Molly Hooper. I'm glad we're in the same house. I was sure I would be in Hufflepuff, I was shocked when the hat said Gryffindor!"
John was beginning to see why he had been told to look out for her. They seemed to have a lot in common so far. "Are you muggle-born as well, Molly?" He asked.
"Oh, I'm a bit of everything." She said, cheerfully. "See, Grandad Hooper is a wizard all through, but Nanny Hooper was muggle-born, then on the other side Grandad Cole was three-quarter blood and Grandma Cole always swore she was a quarter Veela and quarter muggle. Then my daddy turned out squib and my mom got so frightened the day they went to put her on the train that she cried until they let her stay, so I grew up in the muggle world, even though I'm not exactly."
All this was said in one breath. John hadn't caught half of it, and the other half he hadn't been able to keep track of, so he just nodded and said "I see."
Molly obviously knew he was lying because she replied, sagging slightly "Sorry, when I get nervous, I start babbling. People always tell me I talk too much. But I can't help it, I'm quiet most of the time, so when I get nervous, I don't want people to know I'm nervous, and I end up talking to try and hide it, and sometimes it works, but if they know I'm quiet normally- Oh, no, I'm doing it again." She stopped herself, looking shame faced. Seeing her going red, John decided to take pity on her.
"It's nice to meet you, Molly." He said, reaching across to shake her hand. Molly, smiling, grasped his hand and shook it happily, laughing a little at herself. Her laugh changed into a shriek as a ghost came up through the table, right between their arms. John pulled his hand back in shock, rubbing feeling back into it. He had never believed in ghosts, but now the numbness and cold seemed to prove it. If not, the ghost now frowning and extracting himself from the table certainly did.
"Terribly sorry." He said. "I was downstairs and realised I was late for the feast. I decided to take a short cut- slightly misjudged the position of the table. Terribly sorry. So…" He surveyed them and the others. "You're our new first years, are you? Lovely to meet you. I'm Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, resident ghost for Gryffindor."
"Nice to meet you." John replied. "I'm John Watson, this is Molly Hooper."
Sir Nicholas seemed pleased that John was so polite. "Charmed, charmed. What do you think of the old place so far?"
"It's just… it's fantastic." John grinned, still unable to believe his eyes. "Sorry, Sir Nicholas, but are you… are you a ghost?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Seeing Sir Nicholas' face swelling in indignation, John realised he had said completely the wrong thing and he hastily tried to justify himself. "It's just, I thought you might be an illusion spell or something. I'm sorry, I just didn't know ghosts were real."
"Muggle-born, are you?" Nicholas answered, giving him a piercing look that reminded John irresistibly of Sherlock. He wondered if the ghost would sulk for as long. "Yes, well, I dare say a lot of things will surprise you while you're here, boy."
With that, he drifted off, settling in next to Sebastian Moran further down the benches. John looked at Molly, who was anxiously biting her lip, but then, as John rolled his eyes, giggled nervously. John turned around to look to see if the other Houses had their own ghosts too, and, of course, they did. A jolly looking round man sat with the Hufflepuffs, who were nosily swapping funny tales and laughing; and the Ravenclaw table had two ghosts in attendance, a dour looking lady who sat primly with her hands in her lap, not speaking, and a severe looking man, splattered in silvery gore, speaking to Sherlock.
"Arthur," John asked, leaning over the table. "Who is that talking to Sherlock?"
"Hmm? Your friend?" Arthur looked over. "Oh, that's the Bloody Baron. He's the Slytherin Ghost, it's unusual to see him away from their table. Then again, he was quite keen on Mycroft; first Slytherin head boy since Tom Riddle himself, you know. Maybe Mycroft asked the Baron to look out for his brother?"
John thought of what he had seen so far of the Holmes brothers and decided this was plausible. As the main courses melted away to be replaced by desserts, he thought to himself how he didn't envy Sherlock. Sir Nicholas was one thing, but John wasn't sure he'd want to be watched by someone with blood eternally splattered over their clothes.
Sleepy and full of food, John wasn't sure how much talk to expect on the first night. He had met all of his roommates at dinner; one was Sebastian, who had grunted his name and said little else, then the other three, George, Charlie and Jack all knew each other from childhood and, while friendly, John somehow sensed were a tight-knit group who wouldn't make many outside bonds. Nevertheless, when the feast finally drew to a close, the five of them had followed one of the Gryffindor prefects up through the castle. John, weary, took enough note that he would need to explore properly, but decided he was too tired to do so tonight as, while climbing stair after stair, he became convinced that the painted figures in the portraits around him were moving. Then again, as Sir Nicholas had said, he should expect a lot of surprises. It was entirely possible that the portraits were moving. For some reason, the idea made him want to laugh, but he didn't want to offend anyone else, so he held it in.
On reaching one of the top corridors, the prefect stopped by a portrait of a grumpy looking man, with a large beard and an even larger axe, swinging it occasionally in the direction of the lion skulking at the edge of the frame, preventing it from getting too close.
"This them, is it?" He said, gruffly. "Another bunch of weaklings and milksops. Godric must be turning in his grave."
"Everyone," The prefect seemed weary, ignoring this little tirade. "This is Ouimansk, the great warrior of legend. He is the keeper of the Gryffindor common room. In order to enter, you have to give him the password, which will change every week, so keep an eye on the notice boards or ask us prefects." He turned to the painting and said, clearly: "Lion-heart."
"If it was up to me, I wouldn't let any of you in. There's not-a-one of you who has ever fought a battle in your lives! You're not worthy to call yourself Gryffindors!" Ouimansk replied, his eyes cold; but, nevertheless, the painting swung open to reveal a hole, which they scrambled through into a comfortable sitting room, with a roaring fire, plenty of armchairs and tables dotted around. The first year's bedrooms were on the third floor of the tower, half way up. This was to be their room for the next seven years, each new set of first years occupying the rooms abandoned by the previous seventh years. John wondered what signs of their occupation he would find, but the room seemed almost new, filled with five four poster beds, each with a bedside table. Their luggage had arrived already, John's trunk at the end of the bed closest to the door. John opened it, locating his pyjamas and the photograph of his father, placing it on the bedside table. He hoped none of the other boys laughed, but decided that if they did, he would punch them and forget about first impressions.
In spite of their collective tiredness, the boys stayed up late, talking into the night, getting to know each other better. John decided his impressions at dinner had been correct. George, Jack and Charlie were kind enough, including John in the discussion and asking him questions, but they knew each other well, with plenty of shared stories and memories, meaning that often John couldn't follow what they were saying. Sebastian remained quiet, nearly silent, never commenting, answering questions with single sentences, but he didn't seem shy. He seemed to be listening intently to everything, laughed with them, but said nothing. Perhaps that was just his way. George fell asleep first, followed by Jack. Charlie and John chatted a little longer, Sebastian reading by candlelight some magazine John couldn't see the cover of. Then, Charlie headed off to sleep too, and John lay down, knowing he would be asleep almost immediately. He was right, falling asleep just as he heard the curtains draw shut around Sebastian's bed, the candle still glowing, muted, behind the curtains.
One week later, at breakfast, John gave the owls flying in overhead little more than a cursory glance before returning to his toast. The first morning, when they had all swooped in burdened down with post and forgotten items, he had nearly had a heart attack. Now the sight was already familiar to him. Hogwarts was becoming home, a feeling he had never experienced before, but now recognised it for what it was. The travelling boy who had lived in eight different countries was settling down. One of the owls came and sat down next to John, a crest hanging round its neck that John immediately recognised.
"He's not here." He told the owl. "You can wait if you like, but I'm not making any guarantees." If it was possible for owls to look exasperated, this one did. Perhaps its time at the Holmes' household had taught it to mimic Mycroft's expressions. The first morning, John had worried that he wouldn't see much of Sherlock, as his timetable showed that he only had two lessons- Transfiguration and Herbology- with the Ravenclaws. His fears had turned out to be completely unfounded, as on that first morning, Sherlock came and sat next to him at the Gryffindor table. John wondered if it was allowed, as they drew attention from staff and students alike, but none of the teachers nor prefects said anything and the Gryffindors grew used to a Ravenclaw presence at half of their meals. The other half, Sherlock simply didn't turn up at all. John wondered how he survived on eating so little, and wondered where he went, but had decided he didn't want to know. The first morning, the Holmes' owl had circled round the Ravenclaw table looking disgruntled before finally dumping its parcel into the middle of a plate of eggs and bacon and flying away. Sherlock had collected it later and informed John it contained his wand. John had stared, wondering how, even if you were forgetful, you could forget something so vital. Sherlock had just glared and said it wasn't vital, and gone into one of his sulks. Their friendship was stormy at best, and yet, they seemed to have fallen into a group along with Molly, who, shy as she was, didn't speak to anyone else in spite of her constantly being either terrified or baffled by Sherlock. Somehow, though, they felt incomplete. That's what John's nagging sixth sense was telling him, and from time to time he had tried to draw Sebastian into their conversation, but the other boy had always quietly withdrawn, preferring his own company. John wondered if maybe this was just grief for his father being misplaced, giving him the feeling of something missing. The thought made him uncomfortable, and he was just pondering it, when Sherlock decided to grace them with his presence.
"A different house elf made the toast this morning." Was this morning's greeting as Sherlock looked at the plate of toast with disdain and, swinging himself over the bench, pulled a plate of bacon over, dragged Agatha from his pocket, and, tearing it into pieces with his fingers began offering it to her. If the past week had taught John anything, it was that Agatha was always present, even if she was unnoticed. He had even spotted Sherlock's pocket moving suspiciously in class. He had tried hard not to think about how a ferret fitted into a pocket. He somehow felt that the less he knew, the less incriminating it would be.
"Aren't you eating this morning, Sherlock?" Molly made one of her rare attempts at talking to Sherlock. John hoped Sherlock would reply kindly. Sherlock didn't, simply staring at her until she looked away and then turned his attention to the owl, which was bad-naturedly pecking at him.
The envelope, when opened, proved to contain a copy of The Daily Prophet and a short note: 'Examine page 3. –M'. While John puzzled over this enigmatic missive, Sherlock told the owl to wait and flipped to page 3. The article was something about a missing family portrait, the wife's great-great-grandfather, that was of great sentimental and monetary value. Sherlock, however, didn't seem to be reading the text. He scanned over it, bored, and then settled into a minute examination of the picture. John wanted to ask what he was doing, but again, thought better of it.
A moment later, Sherlock sat up, looking satisfied.
"Has anyone got a quill?" He asked. John shook his head.
"I do, here." Molly passed one over, and, turning the note over, Sherlock scribbled his response on the back. His handwriting was appalling, but John managed to decipher it as 'Wife's affair with his cousin irrelevant. Clearly passed by husband to the cousin- SH'. He felt his ears burn slightly just thinking about all this intrigue.
"You know," he said, conversationally. "Most people's letters home are about their teachers and classes and friends."
"Yes, and what kind of replies do they get?" Sherlock snorted. "All is well at home. Mother just took down the curtains to wash. Dull, dull, dull!" He gave his note back to the owl, who took it and flew off.
"So instead, Mycroft sends you newspapers with cryptic clues."
"It's the game, John."
"That game thing again. Why won't you just tell me what it is?"
Sherlock wasn't listening. He was glaring at Agatha, who was enjoying a fuss from Molly. Molly, too, froze guiltily. Agatha looked defiant. Sherlock sighed and shoved the bacon at Molly.
"Feed her, then."
Molly smiled nervously and did so, cooing all the while, under Sherlock's watchful eye. John took the paper and pretended to read it, trying to hide his smile. He hoped this was a sign Sherlock was moving towards accepting Molly as a friend too.
The actual contents of the paper didn't interest him and John's mind fell back to what it had been going back to all week. He had been studying all new subjects, all glamorous and exciting, all radical and new. But, today, this afternoon, it was his very first flying lesson. He could feel the excitement in his stomach every time he thought about it. He couldn't wait. He had woken up this morning, seen the weather was near perfect, and his anticipation had redoubled. His imagination kept running away with him. He imagined himself being a natural, swirling and tumbling through the air, always in perfect control, impressing everyone, going faster than anyone had before…
"Are you Molly Hooper?" A voice said, with just a twinge of an Irish accent. It shook John out of his fantasies, and, embarrassed, he looked up too quickly. He recognised the boy as one of the Slytherin first years, they had a few classes together. Even if they hadn't, he would have remembered him from the sorting. James Moriarty, who had so nearly matched Sherlock with sitting under the hat longest, who had also kept his eyes open.
"You." Sherlock said, a strange tone in his voice.
"Me." James agreed, and the two of them stared at each other.
Molly was forgotten as the two of them stared and stared and the minutes ticked slowly past. After a few moments of silence, John cleared his throat, but went ignored. He shrugged uselessly at Molly, who looked as confused as him. Finally, after what must have been a good five minutes, the two of them launched into a quick-fire game of rock-paper-scissors. It was a tie, with both combatants choosing rock. Sherlock glowered. Jim smirked and sat down.
"Um, so, you two know each other?" John asked.
"Potions." They said together.
"Yeah, we got put on a bench together." James elaborated. "And we're getting on famously, aren't we, Sherlock?"
"If you say so." Sherlock huffed.
"Name's James Moriarty. Call me Jim." Jim continued cheerily.
"John Watson." John replied. "So, um, what was that just now?"
"The game." Moriarty grinned. "And rock, paper, scissors."
"The game?" John sensed a breakthrough. "Wait, you know what he's on about?"
"Observation and deduction." Jim recited slowly, giving every syllable a sense of grandeur. "You look, you observe, you asses each observation and you work out the only solution that makes sense of all the facts." He paused, pondering. "Or you use it to try and work out what they're going to shoot in Rock-Paper-Scissors. We always tie. It drives Sherley here mad."
Jim seemed impervious to Sherlock's murderous look, instead pausing to play with Agatha, flicking pieces of bacon rind down the table for her to chase. "What an adorable kitty." He said, with a laugh in his voice. John wondered if everyone here was slightly off-centre.
"Right." John was unconvinced. "So that thing with the paper…"
"I always play against Mycroft." Sherlock took the paper back and turned back to page three. "It's all there. The painting is of great monetary value, that's true, but it's a portrait. It isn't just going to let itself be stolen, it would have called out. So it must have been someone he knew, someone he trusted, and someone who could convincingly have reason to move it."
"Alright…" John said, uncertainly. He thought Sherlock was probably right, but it was hard to keep reminding himself he was in a world where paintings could talk and move.
"They have no children, no house elf would be allowed to move it, so, it must have been one of the two of them." Jim was looking over at the picture now with interest, speaking as he worked it out, swigging from a glass of orange juice. "Oooh, but, look at her face."
"Well, she looks happy." John ventured.
"…She looks like she's in love." Molly added shyly, studying it too. Sherlock beamed at her, pleased she had drawn the same conclusion as he had. Molly would look rather pleased with herself for the rest of the day.
"Yes, in love." Sherlock agreed. "But she isn't looking at her husband. Look, no matter how much she moves, she's never looking at him. Who is she looking at?"
"She's looking at the man taking the photograph, her husband's cousin." Jim continued, pointing to the caption. "Looking at him with love."
"Clearly an affair." Sherlock nodded.
"But it doesn't matter." Jim was getting into the flow of it now. "It's her family heirloom, she's wearing three different lockets, she's obviously a hoarder, why would she steal it?"
"And look where the camera is focused; it's definitely slanted towards the husband's side." Sherlock continued. "Meaning that the photographer was looking not at his lover, but at his cousin."
"A conspiratorial look, perhaps?" Jim's eyes were on fire, enjoying this as much as Sherlock was.
"Mm, they have a shared secret." Sherlock nodded.
"And assuming it isn't that the husband knows about the affair, it can only be that they know the location of the painting."
"Which must mean they were in on it together." Sherlock concluded, satisfied, folding the paper over and laying it down on the table.
"Well… we'll just have to see what happens." John said, trying to be as neutral as possible. The fact was, hearing it all laid out like that, it was hard to imagine any other explanation now; but he couldn't quite believe all that could be worked out just from one photograph and its caption.
"You don't believe me." Sherlock wasn't happy. "Alright, what about all that stuff with Arthur Weasley, on the train. Do you remember?"
"Yeah, you said… let's see, that he likes older girls and muggles, works hard but is a bit dumb, and has at least two brothers. I thought you were just making it up to insult him."
"Not older girls, John, one older girl. Didn't you see his hair? An old fashioned style like that, he's trying to look more mature."
"Oh! Everyone think he and Molly Prewett are going to get together!" Molly offered. "She's in the same year as him, but I think she is a bit older…"
"Alright, fine, what about the muggle thing?" John asked.
"Didn't you see his face?"
"Of course I do, every day nearly, but I don't see-"
"He still had traces of cream on his face when we were on the train. Not the normal stuff, that's green. This was white. Muggle spot cream. He was experimenting."
John, at this point, was trying to keep his mouth from hanging open. "And the rest?"
"He had study notes hanging out of his pocket. If he really cared about them, he would have kept a better eye on them, but if he didn't care, why would he have them at all? Obviously he had been studying over the summer, if he did well academically he wouldn't bother and if he wasn't a hard worker he definitely wouldn't bother. The two brothers was obvious from the way he looked out for us, the way he spoke to us, the way he let me insult him and didn't bother to get into an argument. Trust me, the only people who can be that non-confrontational are the chronically shy, which he clearly wasn't, or those too experienced with bickering at home."
"Amazing." John blurted, almost involuntarily. "That's really… yes. That's incredible."
Sherlock seemed rather pleased. "Thank you. That's not what most people say."
"What do most people say?"
"I told him to piss off." Jim said, casually looking spreading jam over a slice of toast before taking a big bite out of it. John couldn't help but laugh. "Anyway, it was Molly I came over to see."
"Hi." Molly said, looking slightly worried but making a valiant attempt at hiding it.
"Hi." He smiled back, shuffling a little so he could be angled more towards her. "Listen, Molly, I heard about your dad."
"O-oh." Molly looked down at Agatha, beginning to stroke her again, not making eye contact.
"I just wanted to say… well, Northern Ireland, you know, that's my neck of the woods, so I just wanted to say… I'm sorry. Everything that's happening over there… it's just awful."
"Oh…" Molly looked quite touched. "Thank you."
"I think when the muggles start tearing each other apart, that's the time when wizards should get involved." An ugly shadow passed over his face. "I mean, they can do what they like to each other, but have you seen what it's doing to the land?! The whole country's a mess! It's disgusting. It's an absolute joke and my dad says the Ministry won't let us do anything about it! It's our places getting wrecked too! We should be allowed to-" He stopped, visibly composing himself. "Sorry, it just makes me mad. Anyway, Molly, I'm sorry about your dad."
Uncomfortable listening to Molly's stammering response, John looked away. As he did so, the large clock informed him of the time. He stood up quickly.
"We're late for class." He said, far more calmly than he felt. Somehow, the entire hall had emptied out while they were talking without any of them noticing. Even so, as they hurried off down the halls, Jim heading in initially the same direction as them, John couldn't help but smile. As he watched Jim and Molly's backs hurrying along ahead of him, and Sherlock by his side, the little whispering voice in the back of his mind, his magical extra sense that he couldn't quite explain, quietened down and stopped. It was content. They were complete.
"So what about me?" John asked.
"What about you?"
"When we met, at your house. You asked if it was my mom or dad that had died."
"Oh. That."
"Yes, that. How did you know?"
"Your jacket."
"What about it?"
"You had a jacket with you. In the summer. Therefore you were used to warmer temperatures. Therefore you just moved here, where it's colder and wetter, and people only do that for work or to be closer to family or deaths."
"So how did you know which?"
"You got through all Mycroft's repelling spells. Jobs and aging relatives don't give people that kind of determination."
They entered Transfiguration five minutes late. Professor McGonagall was not impressed, although she did soften up slightly when Sherlock was the first in the class to successfully change his matchstick into a needle, sharp pointed and small-eyed, and not a trace of the wooden anywhere in the metal.
Only John had seen the secret to Sherlock's success. He didn't think Molly or the Professor or anyone else had noticed that, growing frustrated, Sherlock had put his wand down on the table, taken the match between his fingers, and looked at it so severely that John almost thought Sherlock had bullied it into becoming a needle.
"How did you do that, without a wand?" He whispered, once Professor McGonagall had finished examining the needle and moved on, charging Sherlock to change it back.
"Anyone could do it." Sherlock muttered back. "They say wandless magic is the hardest to learn, but it's only because we forget. Everyone forgets they were doing wandless magic before they came here."
"But it's involuntary, isn't it?"
"Mine isn't." Sherlock answered, covering the needle with his hand. When he took his hand away again, his matchstick was lying on the table, apparently unharmed. "I'm not going to forget, John."
McGonagall came to check on their progress and Sherlock snatched up his wand, looking for all the world as if he had changed the match to a needle and back again in the conventional way that the Professor had been teaching them.
Over the months and years to come, it would become obvious that Sherlock was a natural at Transfiguration and John was not. Sherlock continued to subtly use magic without a wand whenever he could; in other lessons the results varied from occasional success to utter failure, but in transfiguration, the wand seemed to make little difference. His magic always worked. Having a wand didn't make much of a difference to John either. He had imagination, certainly, but to him a matchstick was a matchstick and, magic or not, should remain a matchstick. Jim, on hearing this theory, would say it was his tenacity and solidity. Sherlock would say it was stubbornness or stupidity. On that occasion, however, when Sherlock first demonstrated his skills, even the possibility of wandless magic wasn't enough to distract John from the approaching flying lesson. The morning seemed to drag on and on endlessly, until lunchtime. It turned out the lessons were going to be with the Slytherins, and Jim wandered over again to chat to John about it. To John's dismay, it seemed a lot of the other children would, at the very least, have ridden on brooms routinely before, but, Jim assured him, there wouldn't be many who had flown solo. Molly reassured John that she had never been on a broom before either, and, going quiet, seemed to eat even less than Sherlock, who spent most of the lunch hour with his face buried in a book, looking up only occasionally to give some food to Agatha or hide her under the table if a teacher was approaching. After they had eaten, they wandered over the grounds, circling round the lake. Occasionally Sherlock would stop, look at the mud, scribble something on his shirt cuff, and then move on. Molly asked what he was doing, and Sherlock told her how important it was to be able to recognise dirt from different areas. John tuned out his little lecture, retreating back into his flying fantasies. Now, however, they were tempered with an element of reality and the very real possibility that he would be the worst in the class and humiliate himself.
When it came to it, however, John flattered himself that flying might be as natural to him as Transfiguration was to Sherlock, or nearly. They were stood in rows facing each other, the brooms by their sides, lying on the floor, and after an alarmingly short amount of basic instruction, were told it was time to try it themselves. John felt his stomach jolt, though he couldn't decide if it was fear or excitement, but he smiled at his friends, Molly standing next to him, Jim opposite with the Slytherins. Jim grinned back, happy, but Molly looked a bit more unsure. John subtly put his hand out and gave hers a reassuring squeeze as the teacher finished his instructions. It seemed the first step was to calmly and clearly command the broom 'up', at which point, it would jump into their hands. John couldn't quite see the point. The broom was right there. He could just as easily bend down and pick it up himself, but he didn't dare argue. Maybe it was one of those wizard things.
Perhaps the broom heard his thoughts, because when John called 'up', it gave a teasing little wobble and then stayed put. Opposite him, he heard the slight thwack of Jim's flying up into his hand, but too hard, leaving the Slytherin laughing and shaking the pain out of his bruised fingers. Worried, John called his broom again more urgently, and this time it obediently came and settled into his grip. He looked around and saw, quite opposite to his fear that he was one of the last, he was actually one of the first. Gradually, however, more and more brooms made their way into their owner's hands, until only Molly and one of the Slytherin girls remained, struggling. Molly was getting more and more flustered, blushing with embarrassment, and occasionally saying 'Up, please', as if she couldn't bear being so rude as to just command the broom. It wasn't even so much as twitching anymore. John realised Jim was giving him significant looks and, transferring his own broom to his other hand, John waited until the teacher was giving his attention to the Slytherins and then leant round Molly, muttering 'Up'. The broom jumped up and Molly caught it, looking supremely grateful to not be the last. It was a little tough on the Slytherin girl perhaps, but, John thought, someone destined to be directly after Sherlock Holmes every time they had to perform in one of their shared classes deserved a few breaks.
It was time to stop thinking about Molly, though, and concentrate on the task at hand. He wiped his hands on his robes in case they were sweaty- they weren't- and, sitting astride his broom, tried to remember the appropriate grip, running through the instructions they had been given for up and down. To begin with, they were just to get on, hover for a minute at head height, and then come back down. The whistle blew, and, cautiously, John tried to get the broom to go upwards. It did. He let himself go just a little higher than he should, and then held. The teacher complimented him on his control as others struggled to get off the ground or went too high or wobbled all over the place. John sat on his broom while the teacher sorted them out, swinging his legs, enjoying the feeling of space below them. So far this wasn't that different to climbing trees.
A minute or two after him, Jim managed to steady himself at John's height, though he was frowning a bit with the effort. Once he was balanced, he grinned at John, exhilarated. Then he glanced at the teacher and, sure he was distracted, slowly and carefully leant to his left, executing a near perfect barrel roll, wobbling only slightly as he came to be upright again. His smile this time was daring.
John looked at the teacher. He was still busy helping Molly, who had been watching Jim and clearly hadn't heard a word he'd said, judging by her flustered refocusing now, as the teacher asked her a question. He probably had a few seconds of safety, if he had the guts.
John flipped himself over. His stomach turned, but as he came back to the upright position, he had to fight the urge to laugh. That was, he realised, one of the most fun things he had ever done. They spent the rest of the lesson gradually climbing higher, going faster, learning to turn left and right, but none of it was as much fun as that simple, illicit stunt, and no view of the castle from above that he would build up over the years would ever be as precious to him as the blurred vision of the grass whizzing past somewhere a few feet above his head.
When he returned to Gryffindor common room, worn out, arms and legs aching from the unaccustomed movements, he found for the first time Sherlock sitting on his bed waiting for him.
"There you are." He said. "How long does it take to get back from the grounds? I want to go back to the lake, Jenkins was telling me that if you brush some of the mud away by that big tree you can see the roots."
"Sherlock, how did you…? How did you get in here?!"
"I played the game with Ouimansk, it wasn't hard to work out the password."
"Right." John rolled his eyes, going into his trunk for the change of socks he had come in for. "Well, I'm not going anywhere before I've had dinner. I'm starving."
It was at this moment that Sebastian walked in. He looked at them in confusion, noting Sherlock's untidy but undoubtedly blue tie. John smiled apologetically.
"He followed me home, can we keep him?"
Sebastian turned away, but not before John saw the little amused smile that had crept onto his face. Pleased with this progress, John invited him to come down to dinner with them. The invitation was declined, to John's dissatisfaction and Sherlock's relief.
It was the final week in September before Sherlock received another letter from home that wasn't just a newspaper with a little hint or question. It had been a month now since they had started school, but already it seemed like forever. Things had just settled into a nice little routine of their classes, friends, and their little corner of the Gryffindor table, Molly and Jim on one side, John and Sherlock on the other. The Holmes family owl didn't even bother going over to the Ravenclaw table anymore, landing between Jim and Molly, where it sat eating Molly's bacon rinds until Sherlock finally arrived. For once, the owl was carrying an actual parcel. John was intrigued. For his part, Jim wanted to open it, but Molly wouldn't let them. Sherlock eventually came to join them and, keeping Agatha a safe distance from the owl, took the parcel, his lip curling in distaste.
"What is it?" John asked, mystified.
"A birthday present from my mother." Sherlock sounded like such a thing was a death sentence. The parcel flopped slightly in his hands. "No doubt another awful shirt."
"It's your birthday?!" Molly was, it seemed, appalled at this oversight on her part. "I'm sorry, I didn't know! Happy birthday!"
John and Jim echoed this sentiment, but Sherlock didn't seem to care, instead opening the package with a world weary sigh. Inside was another small package wrapped in brown paper, a note, and the promised lurid shirt, which proved to be a revolting tie-dye affair of fluorescent greens and yellows, that swirled round, occasionally forming the words 'it's my birthday!' in their coils. Jim couldn't stop laughing, not heeding Molly's attempts at ssh-ing him. John did his best to hold his giggles in, trying to disguise it as a cough when Molly glared at him. Sherlock had turned to the accompanying note, picking it up between his fingers as though it was contagious. It read as follows:
Sherlock,
Happy birthday darling! I found this shirt in a catalogue, isn't it fun? The words will change every day, so you can look forward to some surprises! And that might not be the only surprise you get today! But I'm saying too much as usual! I'm awfully busy as you can imagine, so I'll stop here. Happy birthday! Hugs and kisses and all mummy's love to you!
Mummy
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sherlock, understandably, was not impressed very much by this note either, screwing it up as tightly as possible. John found himself wondering what exactly Mrs Holmes was like, apart from having awful taste in shirts and a habit of using too much punctuation. Sherlock pushed the shirt aside derisively, rummaging underneath it for the smaller package. This, too, had a note tied to it:
I'm so sorry, I tried to stop her. Happy birthday, brother. –M
Looking much happier at the prospect of Mycroft's gift, Sherlock opened it to reveal a pair of scissors, with which he immediately set about the 'humane destruction' of the t-shirt. John couldn't believe Sherlock was already twelve, his own birthday wasn't until the end of May. Still, he comforted himself, he was at least slightly taller.
"Sherlock, are you sure you should?" Molly asked, anxiously twisting her hands. "I mean, it was a gift, your mother chose that carefully, to show she loves you… and what if she asks you about it?"
"She won't. Look at it, Molly. I'm doing the world a favour." Sherlock reassured her, continuing to methodically snip the shirt into strips. John couldn't help but agree with him.
"But…"
"You should have been in Hufflepuff." He shook his head in exasperation.
"No I shouldn't! It just seems such a waste…"
"We could use it as a collar for Agatha." Jim suggested, trying to control his laughter. He coaxed the ferret over to him and tied one of the strips round her neck in a bow. The words 'Happy birthday!' flowed lazily round the loops and disappeared as Sherlock took out his wand and began to systematically burn the scraps.
"Sherlock Holmes!" It was Professor McGonagall who came storming down the aisle looking furious. "What on earth do you think you are doing?"
Sherlock stared at her, as if baffled as to why she could think he was doing anything wrong. It was Jim who answered.
"It's an act of compassion, Professor, really."
"Quiet, Moriarty, or I'll have you in detention too. Holmes, you will go to Professor Mylas' office as soon as morning classes are over. You're Ravenclaw house, I don't see why I should have to deal with you."
"Professor." Sherlock grunted, reluctantly. John sometimes thought Sherlock spent more time in the Ravenclaw head's office than anywhere else in the castle.
"If you cause any more trouble at this table, I won't allow you to sit here." She said, seeming to sense that this would be the more effective punishment. "Either of you. I'm all for inter-house unity, but really."
"If Molly was a Hufflepuff, we'd have a full set." Sherlock said, looking at Molly as if it was somehow her fault all this was happening.
"I really couldn't care less about your collection, Mr Holmes." McGonagall sniffed. "But if you're going to set fires, kindly do it at your own table. As for you, Mr Watson, Miss Hooper, I advise you to keep a close eye on what your friends here are doing." She flicked her wand over her shoulder, and John flinched to see as the gems representing house points disappear out of each of the house's tubes- five from Slytherin, ten from Gryffindor, and fifteen from Ravenclaw. Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He and Jim had already explained to John that they were 'experimenting' to see if they could make it so Hufflepuff would win the House Cup at the end of the year for the first time in over a decade. John worried slightly about what this ambition meant for him, Molly, and for Gryffindor. As they looked over at that side of the hall however, they were distracted by the entrance of Dumbledore, walking sedately next to a man John didn't recognise. He was middle aged and looked very severe; reminding John a great deal of the headmaster of the grammar school he had seen when he had gone to take his 11+. The man carried himself very straight and upright, nodding at whatever Dumbledore was saying, but not looking interested. In John's opinion, he didn't look well, grey skin under his short grey hair. Sherlock was looking at him quizzically, head tilted to one side.
"I wonder." He muttered to himself.
"The headmaster has a guest, I don't think we need any of your wonderings, Mr Holmes." Professor McGonagall said curtly, and went over to greet the man. John thought she seemed surprised as they were introduced, glancing back at them. A moment later, the great mystery was revealed when Dumbledore stood at the front and said "I see some of you are looking on in curiosity at our esteemed guest. We are lucky enough to be enjoying a rare visit from the Minister for International Magical Co-operation, Mr Thaddeus Holmes."
John and Molly both stared at Sherlock in surprise. Jim looked smug, as if he had already worked it out, but John didn't believe that for a second. Sherlock kept his face completely neutral.
"Now, let's see…" Dumbledore peered out. "Ah, yes, I see Sherlock is taking his breakfast with the Gryffindors again this morning. Well, when you've both quite finished, the anteroom on the side here is quite at your disposal." He sat down again, engaging Sherlock's father in conversation as the two men began to eat.
"Hmm. I thought it was him." Sherlock said, calmly, penning a return message to Mycroft ("Even worse than usual. Never leave her unattended while shopping.-SH") and giving it to the owl, which flew away as soon as it could.
"You didn't recognise him?" John asked, feeling awkward. He had often wondered about Sherlock's family. Now he wasn't altogether sure he wanted to know.
"No, I've only met him twice." Sherlock shrugged. "He works abroad. Mother gets the occasional letter, but he hasn't been home to visit since I was seven. I wonder what he's doing here."
"Perhaps he came to see you." Molly suggested, tentatively. "For your birthday."
Sherlock snorted. Seeing that his father had already risen from the staff table and was working his way into the side room, Sherlock stood, took a final mouthful of juice, and, leaning forward said to John "I'll see you in class."
"Alright, but-"
"It won't take long." He answered flatly, and left.
