Chapter Four
Occupations
"Happy birthday!"
The two boys sat in the living room of the Holmes' mansion, happily celebrating the first day where the younger friend turned eleven. Sherlock had forced Mycroft to stay out of their business since their relationship still wasn't stitched up; considering Mycroft had shoved his brother, the younger sibling wasn't fond in laying his eyes on his teenage housemate for a few days. Doctor Who was paused on the television, and a lonely present sat before John on the carpeted floor. He eyed it suspiciously, awaiting the moment that he was allowed to reveal what was hidden under the bow on top of the gift.
"Open it!" Sherlock urged him, making a shooing motion with his hands. John sagged his head a little and smiled, shyly reaching out to grab the gift. The wrapping paper was scarlet and gold striped, and a shimmering gold ribbon was stuck on top; John's hand automatically ripped the bow from the paper and he placed it lightly on the crown of his head.
"It's tradition," he told Sherlock, who giggled at his frivolous and silly behavior. "Whenever you have a bow on your birthday or a special holiday, you have to stick it on your head for at least five seconds." He dipped his head forward and the streamer slid from his hair, landing lightly on the floor. Sherlock scooped it up and played with it, tossing it between his hands frantically.
John felt awful ruining such a beautifully wrapped package. There was a cardboard box underneath the slim layer of red and gold, and he struggled to unstick the tape holding the lid closed. He eventually cut it in half with his fingernail and the cap lurched upwards.
John reached a few fingers into the box and revealed what looked like a glass top from the container. The colors of red, orange, yellow, and teal were swirled together in a pattern in the inner sphere. "What is it?" Watson questioned, observing the strange object and tapping on its glass outer shell.
"It's called a Pocket Sneakoscope," Sherlock explained. "Supposedly it lights up and spins on its own when someone untrustworthy is around. I figured you'd need it once we go to school, since you're so keen to meet new people. I just don't want you falling into the hands of a wrong person…" John beamed at the gift, holding it in his hand. He didn't need to concentrate or anything; for when he held it, the Sneakoscope was poised upright on its point, perfectly balanced.
"Thanks!" John exclaimed, still checking out his new present in awe. Sherlock felt joyous as he watched his friend get a little too excited over an enemy tracking device.
"So what do you say?" Sherlock suggested, facing the television repeatedly. "How about some more Doctor Who?"
"No, no, NO!" Sherlock screamed, making John jump in his seat. The shorter boy was sprawled lazily on Sherlock's bed and had been dozing off into space. The trees outside Sherlock's bedroom window swayed leisurely in the late July wind.
"Jesus!" John cried. "What was that for?"
"My potion boiled too much. The temperature was just a minor amount of degrees too high." Sure enough, when John rolled over, the beaker containing Sherlock's brewed substance had overflowed onto his experiment table and was bubbling ferociously.
"Be right back," the experimenter mumbled, picking up the glass with rubber gloves and bringing it speedily into his bathroom. John heard the mixture being sucked down the sink drain and pushed himself to a sitting position, his legs outstretched in front of his hips.
"Whatever," Sherlock sighed, throwing the beaker onto the table. It slid a little too far and crashed to the floor, shattering glass throughout the room. "That potion had a tedious brewing process anyway." John was always amused watching Sherlock work on his experiments; he was privileged the day Holmes had offered the blond if he'd wanted to be involved in some of his experiments. John's hypothesizes didn't turn out to be remotely close to what he'd expected when he agreed to the job.
Suddenly there was a loud BANG! and John saw some sort of flying object hit the window outside, which even made Sherlock jump out of his skin. There was a blur of brown and black as the animal stumbled in mid air, wings tangling while missing the window sill. It regained its composure and was able to land on the ledge during its second platform attempt.
A feathery owl sat poised on its claws, a letter tied securely to one leg. Sherlock glanced at John, knowing perfectly well what it was. He flew over to the window, John at his side, and tore open the skylight. He let the owl hop gleefully into the room and stared into its glassy spheres, which didn't blink at all.
Sherlock untied the knot on the owl's leg and gathered up the letter. Without hesitation, the owl turned its back on the two boys, spread its great wings, and took off into the heavy wind. John forced the window shut, letting Sherlock stare open‒mouthed at the letter he'd just received.
"So, that's how it comes…" John mused.
The emerald writing on the envelope was undeniably written with a female hand. The script was precise and the ink glittered in the sunlight. No doubt written with a quill, Sherlock deduced. The paper, no, parchment was smooth beneath the touch of his fingers.
"What are you waiting for?" John was bewildered that his friend hadn't already torn the envelope open. "Read it!" The crest of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry stood out boldly against the paleness of the parchment, like blood versus flesh. Sherlock unstuck the waxy seal from the opening and pushed the flap up, revealing a second piece of parchment inside. His heartbeat raced rapidly in his chest. Surely John could hear it next to him…
The letter was removed casually from its protection shield, and Sherlock read the words aloud to John, despite him glancing over his shoulder.
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.
Yours Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Sherlock had received his letter. However, time was ticking and there was only a week and a half till the deadline. John still needed to be given his letter. And the only possible explanation that he hadn't received one was a legitimate but ludicrous reason, because all the letters were always sent out at the same time.
But at least they were smart enough creatures to find their destinations eventually. That was the key word: eventually.
The owl carrying John's letter had assumedly gotten lost, but no one could confirm that to be true.
John kept eagerly awaiting the arrival of his letter over the following week. Sherlock had simply refused to send an owl back until his friend had the same invitation in his hand, but John made him send his response a few days later. "It's no big deal," John lied, watching the owl soar off into the summer breeze. "I knew I wasn't going to get one anyway…"
Sherlock was also rather ticked off at the thought of an owl living in his bedroom for over a week, but the positive side of things was that the wild creature got its own food and didn't pester him all the time. He claimed he didn't need another living animal disturbing his presence, unless he personally owned an owl like Mycroft did. He was pleased when it flew off on its long journey back to the castle, returning him back to his peace and quiet, the response letter tied securely to its stubby leg.
It was one Sunday that John rested blissfully on his bed when a distraction kept him from his hobby. He read the words on the pages of Hogwarts: A History repeatedly over and over, still keeping his mind on the absence of his letter from the school. He flipped back and forth with the pages containing the information on Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin, wondering what would happen if he was possibly sorted into the wrong house.
I'm definitely not a Ravenclaw, John told himself for the millionth time. I'm not smart enough.
Something flew outside his window out of the corner of his eye. He sprang from his bed, hands pressed firmly against the glass. Moments later, the owl faded into view from a considerable distance away. And with only two days left to spare! He was beginning to lose hope.
He was sprinting, his legs powering through and his brain urging him to continue on. He told himself to keep his joints bending, his arms swinging, and his heart pumping. He didn't stop till he reached the familiar front door; number five. He tapped three times with the brass knocker, breathing very heavily and gathering fresh air into his lungs.
Mycroft Holmes appeared behind the door. John tried not to roll his eyes, but asked wildly, "Sherlock! Is Sherlock home? I want to talk to him." The paper in his hand flapped flimsily as his hand motions cut through the air.
"Yes," Mycroft said, his drawling voice alarmed. "I'll go get him." He shut the door in John's face and the blond heard a muffled voice behind the barrier. He put his hands on his knees, bending over to try and collect more oxygen.
The door creaked open on its hinges once more not twenty seconds later and John bolted upright, adjusting his clothes. The body of Sherlock Holmes emerged from the depths of the front hall, his hair extremely messy and his blazer hanging off his right shoulder.
"Hey, John," he said, waving.
"It came," the shorter boy projected, before the younger Holmes brother could speak. "I got my letter."
"Behave yourself, you understand?"
"Yes, Mum. I remember everything you told me. I'll be polite." John adjusted the buttons on his jacket and stared into his mother's face. She was ghostly white, her normal skin tone.
"Do you have your phone?" John nodded and pulled it out of his pocket just for proof. Before concluding up her goodbyes, the mother slid a tiny silver key into his closed palm. She shook it and stared into her son's electrifying eyes, and John nodded as he understood what the key would open.
"Alright." His mother brushed off his shoulder blades and turned her son's coat collar up.
"Mum!" Watson said, embarrassed at her priming his appearance. Sherlock stood watching and snickering at the entrance to what looked like an ancient hotel with rust blotting the front door, which squeaked on its ancient hinges. Harriet spied from behind her mother's back, arms crossed in frustration and secret jealousy. His mother flattened his blond locks and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, making the eleven‒year‒old blush.
"We'll be back on September 1st to send you off to school. Until then, have fun!" John leapt into her arms for a final hug farewell and she pulled her only son in close.
"I love you, Mum," John whispered into her ear. Her soothing words came back with the exact same message. Turning to depart, she shooed Harriet off in front of her, all the while waving back at John. Watson watched his family turn the last corner, undoubtedly going to wait at the nearest train station to catch the next ride home back into the suburbs of London.
"Ready now, are we?" Mycroft came into view behind the front door, a smirk on his face. A shiny badge was pinned to his chest in the colors of emerald and silver with the letter P engraved on the front.
"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock interjected, punching his teenage brother on the arm. John growled and flattened his coat collar, brushing his silky blond hair closer to his head. A crumbled message written on a piece of paper sat in the palm of his hand.
"Do you have your list?" Sherlock asked, appearing at John's side. One of his long, thin hands rested on his friend's shoulder.
"Both," John remarked, digging into his jeans' back pocket and seeking for his list of school supplies. "Ha!" he exclaimed, pulling out the parchment, which had been replaced back into the envelope in which it came. Watson craned his neck up to see a rusty black sign dangling a few feet above his head, rocking back and forth in the mild wind. The gold letters on the dusty, painted black wood read The Leaky Cauldron.
"Right then," Sherlock said, slapping him on the back. "Let's get your trunk upstairs to our room, then we can go scope out Diagon Alley."
"May I ask why we are in a deserted room with nothing but brick walls all around?"
"Oh, you'll see." Sherlock smirked, raising his eyebrows repeatedly up and down. "Mycroft," he turned his attention to his older brother, a sneer tugging at his lips, "you do it. I don't know how," he explained, rather unwillingly.
"Very well, dear brother." Mycroft offered the younger Holmes a smile but took it back instantaneously. The oldest of the three grasped the handle of his devoted umbrella and juggled in back and forth in his hands. He twirled it once or twice, almost intentionally smacking his brother in the process, and then held it inches before the rear wall.
"I'm going to learn how to do this one day," Sherlock whispered to his buddy.
The pattern flew out of John's head as soon as he tried to deliver it to his brain. Mycroft tapped a sum of seven bricks haphazardly, all of which were different sizes and had various dents in them. Once the tip of Mycroft's umbrella released itself from the wall, the drummed bricks began to move on their own, pushing further into the fence. The cement holding the bricks together seemed to have disappeared right before his eyes.
The bricks shifted places with others, propelling away from the center where Mycroft stood. When they had secured themselves back into fresh places, the wall looked as though nothing had happened when it in fact had transformed into a red archway; except there was a long, narrow street stretching far off in the distance with various shops, restaurants, and wizards dodging in and out of view in a place where it literally shouldn't have been located.
"John," Sherlock said, turning to see the look on his friend's face, "welcome to Diagon Alley."
The building looked like it would collapse at all second. The large pillars could fit at least five of him inside easily, and each floor atop the one just below was slanted in an opposite direction. John could wrap his arms around the perimeter of one of the columns and they would remain straight because the poles were so large in size. The bank, which was located at the very end of the main street, had great doors under archways, and the capital letters on the balcony beneath the second floor read Gringotts.
"You'll collect your money from your vault in here," Sherlock explained. "Oh, and don't be alarmed. Goblins work here."
"What?" John let off some sort of shiver. The enormous front doors swung open on their hinges, revealing a front hall with a high‒domed ceiling and several crystal chandeliers. The two eleven‒year‒olds followed closely behind Mycroft, all the while John's nerves growing in the pit of his stomach.
"What's your vault number?" the brunette nudged him, and the blond checked the handy information written on the note his mother gave him. "347," was the number he came back with.
"Good," Sherlock nodded. "Mine's 221," he added, turning his attention to the goblin at the front desk and depositing his tiny golden vault key.
"So, where do you want to head off to first?" Sherlock asked. The two boys stood outside the great bank, scanning the scene of the crowded alley bustling with various‒aged wizards. Their pockets were full of clinking coins, weighing them down. Mycroft had abandoned them, attending to his own business and searching for his own expensive school supplies. "He's too busy with Ministry matters," Sherlock entertained John, mimicking Mycroft's tone and trying to act superior.
"I don't know…" John whisked, checking the items he needed on his list. "I suppose we should get our wands first, since those are most important." The taller friend agreed and led the way in the direction in which they'd come from originally, dodging through adults and young kids who wanted to peek in every shop window with their piggy eyes.
"There's Potage's Cauldron Shop," Sherlock said, pointing to a dark and gloomy store to their left. "And that's where we'll get our robes, Madam Malkin's."
"Ah, here we are." This shop was by far the oldest of the entire street. The paint was peeling and cracking overall from the bulging walls, along with torn gold letters, educating Ollivander's: Makers Of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C. Sherlock held the door open for John, and the shorter boy muttered his thanks as he stepped into the deserted business shop.
A thick layer of dust covered most of the items scattered around the shop, and a cracked bell made a ding noise as the two boys stepped in the front door. No one was in sight, and the lanterns were set to the dimmest stage they could ever encounter. The dull light sent a ghostly shadow over the aisles stacked with boxes filled with wooden wands.
"Mr. Ollivander!" Sherlock called into the abandoned darkness. Almost instantly, a man appeared, flying into the front room on a sliding shelf ladder. He was almost impossible to make out in the space between two shelves while wearing grey robes, but the old man came to the aid of the two boys almost instantly.
"Mr. Holmes," he spoke in a deep subtle voice, stepping off the last step. "I was wondering when you would show up to buy your wand. I've been expecting you." Sherlock stood with his arms behind his back and looked the old man up and down, no disbelief making deductions. Mr. Ollivander stepped into a clear view so John could see his features better. Grayish‒white hair grew from his scalp and his chin was slightly scruffy. Bags drooped under his eyes from tireless years of working and attending Hogwarts himself as a Ravenclaw when he was young. What were most detectable at first sight were his eyes. They were pale‒silver and hard, examining as if he was digging into the boy's soul. "And who might this be?" he asked, focusing on the blond.
"I'm John Watson," the shorter boy said, shaking Mr. Ollivander's hand.
"Pleasure to meet you both." He was a polite man, and suddenly he raised his finger, a thought springing to his mind. "Let me see what I can find." He shuffled his feet off back into the depths of his shop, searching through an endless number of piles of boxes. He returned not a minute later, holding a long, skinny box before his chest.
"Try this one," the wand maker suggested, handing the box over to John's small hands. He was hesitant at first, as if someone had just spelled supercalifragilisticexpialidocious and had blown his mind so much he couldn't speak. But his eyes weren't wide and he remained calm, holding in the urge to jump up and down excitedly for just testing out a wand for the first time. His fingers pulled the cover off the box, and a dark brown wand was uncovered beneath. "Ten inches, Ash wood, Unicorn core." John took the smooth wood in his hand, lifting it from the box as if it were glass.
"Test it," Ollivander urged him, waving his hands. John gave the wand a small flick, but all the effect it had was rustling the papers on Ollivander's desk.
"No, not that one." Ollivander shook his head and made his way to the stacks of wands in the far right corner. John put the unsuccessful wand back into the proper box and set it down on the table.
"Maybe this one will do. Ten inches, Dragon core, Larch wood." John brushed the thick dust off the cover of the box, coughing as it entered his throat. Sherlock had ventured over to the display window, tilting his head and scanning his eyes over the surfaces of the different varieties of wands.
"Is it supposed to feel heavy?" John asked curiously, trying to lift it up and down. "It feels…I dunno, warmer than the last one, but it seems quite heavy."
"Then that one won't do," Ollivander rejected, shaking his head. John stacked the second box on top of the first one, wondering how many would end up on the table by the time he'd chosen his wand. It was kinda fascinating how one tiny difference in a wand meant so much, like how he'd just experienced the weight ratio in two wizard tools.
"Am I ever going to be able to choose one?" John asked the wand maker, who shuffled about near the side walls in search of more boxes. He chuckled, turning to face the boy as Sherlock too looked up to fetch for the answer from over the blond's shoulder.
"Mr. Watson," the kind old man began, and John smiled inside as Ollivander remembered his last name so quickly. "You my boy have that statement backwards."
"What?" Clearly the shortest human was lost.
Ollivander picked up another case from a slanted shelf but replaced it immediately. None of the wands fancied his interest to serve for the young wizard. "You don't choose your wand. The wand chooses the wizard."
"But…how does that work?"
"Well, you see, wands have special abilities. At least, more than you think they do. When they're placed in a wizard's hand, they act like they have a mind of their own and select a wizard they believe they can cooperate with easily. They form a permanent bond with its owner, linking onto the person's personality to perform the most advanced and precise magic it can." John blinked a few times, going cross‒eyed from the amount of 'P's' that were exposed in that one sentence. "And don't let the stack of unusable wands on my desk put you down. I've had many brand new wizards just like your bright self come in and have to go through almost a quarter of my shop before we finally found the correct one.
That piped‒up the eleven‒year‒old's feelings. "I see," he responded, watching Mr. Ollivander rush by him to the other side of the shop. He disappeared behind a row of filing cabinet, leaving John to reconsider their discussion.
"Aha!" The wand maker nearly screamed from the back of his shop, making Sherlock and John jump unaware on the wooden tiled floor.
"I do believe this one will suit you." Another grey box was once again in John's grasp, and when he took off the cover he felt some lurching sensation in his limbs. He felt some mental connection spreading from the ends of his fingers through the wood he held, like a spark was set off. Sure enough, when John gave it a wave, a lukewarm feeling spread throughout the shop.
"Dragon core, Hawthorne wood, eleven inches," Ollivander announced, seeing the gasp on John's face. "Hawthorne wands don't choose wizards very often; for they only bond with some of the most talented wizards who have the skill to wield them. The truly skilled accompany them with its healing powers, otherwise unfortunate things can occur." John didn't think he would ever become a talented wizard, but the fact that his wand had healing powers reminded him of his mum.
He didn't return his wand back to its box for a while, but instead examined the dark reddish‒brown wood with wonder.
"Dragon cores produce the strongest magic," Ollivander continued, now searching for Sherlock's wand. "So if Hawthorne wood and a Dragon core meet with the wrong wizard, disaster could strike." John gulped loudly. "But no worry," Ollivander informed, "I can see you have a strong bravery about you and have a stout heart." John caught Sherlock's eye, and the taller boy smiled and winked down at him.
"Perhaps this will suit you, Mr. Holmes. Your brother was very difficult in his day, mind you." Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. He took hold of the black box from Ollivander's shaking hand and pulled off the cover, opening the protector.
This wand was a very sharp shade of black. Even with the dim light a white glow reflected off the surface. "Thirteen inches, Dragon core, Yew wood." Some feeling of dread surfed through Sherlock veins when he picked it up, and a frown crossed his face. He flicked the wand anyway, expecting disastrous results.
The trial spell rebounded off the desk and hit one of the lamps, exploding the glass. Sherlock scooted back alarmed and hastily returned the wand back to its box. He piled his first wand box with John's discarded ones, trying to act as if nothing happened.
"Hmm, seems like you might be just as difficult." Sherlock felt insulted but muted his comeback nonetheless. The shop keeper stepped back up onto the rickety ladder and pushed off a shelf hard with his foot. He disappeared from view seconds later. "I think this will do." Ollivander came back a few minutes later after the two first years heard a loud series of shuffles and bangs from the depths of the aisles.
The wheat gold wand had a slightly bumpy texture at its base but a smooth section beneath that to interact with Sherlock's long fingers. There was a silvery shadow about the surface and a scarlet red glow deep within the core. "Sycamore wood, Phoenix core, fourteen inches." When Sherlock waved the wand, a powerful warmth expanded through the shop. "Phoenix cores are very rare. I haven't sold many…"
"Precisely," Sherlock stared, examining his brand new wand.
They paid Mr. Ollivander with the correct amount of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, thanked him and exited the shop, their pockets slightly lighter. The boys pushed through the crowded street, debating where to shop for more supplies next.
"I suppose we need our robes now," Sherlock pointed out as they passed a group of witches wearing purple cloaks and selling lollipops.
"I suppose so," John admitted. "Maybe we could just make our way down the street and stop in whichever shops we need to?" Sherlock thought this to be reasonable and skimmed over the items on their supply lists. A bunch of books, robes, tools for potions class, and…
"Dress robes?" Sherlock's tone was stern and almost mortified, and he shook John with a clump of his jacket fabric. "What do we need dress robes for?"
