Author's Note: Phew! This chapter was a doozy. I can't tell you how many rewrites went into it or I'll vomit. Thank you so much for your support, darling readers. You're the butter to my beer.
"Nervous?" John whispered in Sherlock's ear, chest pressing up against his back.
"No. You?"
"No." A lie, though well-concealed to the average observer. Of course Sherlock wasn't average in any aspect of his person. Why John even bothered attempting to lie to him anymore was indiscernible.
Sherlock glanced at his friend, watching as dark blue eyes flickered around the foyer. While Sherlock had never seen Hogwarts in person before, he at least had a vivid concept of what it would look like. John, on the other hand, was in complete awe, even more so than he'd been in Diagon Alley. Sherlock's offer to share Prospero had been sufficiently placating, considering John wouldn't stop chattering like a fool for the whole of their Hogwart's Express trip (during which they, thank Merlin, had a compartment all to themselves), and then didn't utter a word the entire boat ride. He did lean against Sherlock's side a fair bit though, which was acceptable.
When a man (prematurely graying hair, early thirties, good-looking by the quotidian standards, obvious Gryffindor) cleared his throat, coming to stand before the two massive, intricately-carved doors leading to the Great Hall, John startled behind him.
"Welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Professor Lestrade. I'm the head of Gryffindor House as well as the Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, so I should become pretty well acquainted with all of you during your time here. If you have any questions, you can come to me or any of the other professors and we'll be happy to help.
"We will now be proceeding into the Great Hall where you will be sorted into your houses. Now, remember, your house will be like your family. Your triumphs will earn you points, any rule-breaking, and you will lose points. Ready? Let's proceed."
"I like him," John said quietly, still close to Sherlock's back.
"You would."
When the doors creaked open, the buzzing of conversation within the hall cut off in a hush. John gulped. Sherlock almost took John's sleeve between his fingers, a supposed gesture of comfort that John had often used on him, but thought better of it. This was neither the time nor the place.
They filed into the hall side by side, following Lestrade and working their way up the middle aisle with all eyes fixed upon them. Sherlock very pointedly avoided looking at the Slytherin table, keeping his focus on John instead. Still, his neck prickled as though he could sense Mycroft watching him. Perhaps he could.
"Alright, so maybe I'm a little nervous," John admitted.
"Relax, it'll be fine."
"I wish we'd get sorted together," John sighed softly as they came to stand in a group at the front of the hall.
"We won't be, but it doesn't matter. We talked about this."
Before John could reply, the anxious glint in his eyes clawing at Sherlock's own resolve, the Sorting Hat began to sing. It was an ancient, tattered, dirty thing (once owned by Godric Gryffindor: Hogwarts: A History), and Sherlock was fascinated by it. He'd read all there was to know about Hogwarts (obviously), and for the most part had been a tad unimpressed with the reality thus far.
The Sorting Hat was an exception.
It was a tool of deduction, a magical instrument that could take a wizard's mind, analyze it, identify the most prominent traits, and sort them accordingly. Sherlock fancied that he possessed a similar ability, though it was through his own intellect rather than a charm, and clearly superior. He glanced around at his fellow first years, observing and cataloguing and making his own sorting deductions. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw. Obvious.
When the hat finished its customary song, Sherlock's attention was drawn back to the man called Lestrade. With a tranquil posture he approached where the hat perched on a stool and, a parchment list in hand, began reading off the names of various students in alphabetical order. Sherlock was pleased, though hardly surprised, to note that all of his sorting selections were proving correct.
John was worrying his lip beside him, clearly fearing the moment when Sherlock would be called first and leave him there alone. Still, it had to be said that his friend hid his dread well. It was apparent to Sherlock, of course, but John did have an impressive way of pushing his shoulders back and being remarkably stoic when things upset him. It was one of his most appealing qualities.
"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade bellowed, the words echoing through the hall. John tensed beside him.
Sticking up his chin and flattening his curls with a perfunctory swipe, Sherlock approached the stool. With a swirl of his robe behind him, he took his seat and Lestrade placed the Sorting Hat on his head.
Immediately, a voice (deep, rasping, ancient) began whispering in his ear.
"Ah, finally a challenge. Haven't had one this good since your brother."
Sherlock grumbled. That was the last thing he was hoping to hear.
"You're a proper genius, yes, just like him. Different though. Very different. Oh, this mind…depthless and raging. A gift and a curse. You could be great you know. It's all here in your head. The things you could do if you let the ends justify the means."
Sherlock's eyes flickered to John, standing there, staring at him with his lip between his teeth.
"Yet, there's obsession in here too. A thirst for knowledge," the hat continued, "you could dedicate yourself to learning instead. To your craft. Yes, this one is difficult, very difficult."
It was an odd experience for Sherlock to find himself the subject of analysis. He was always on the other end, ripping things down to their truths. In fact, he was starting to get irritated. What did a bloody bonnet see that he didn't already know of himself? What did it know that John didn't? And that was a strange thought. After all their time together, all their mornings, afternoons, nights, it was undeniable that John knew him more thoroughly than any other person, even Mycroft. There were still things he kept hidden, of course. Buried, locked away, coveted. Things no one would ever know. Yet there John was, with his dark blue eyes and wistful praise and stupid expressions. Sherlock looked at him, and a series of memories flashed in his mind.
"I suppose Ravenclaw would be bearable."
"And what kind of people are in that house?"
"Clever people. People of wit and learning."
"That sounds like you to me."
John had barely known him then, and yet he seemed so sure.
…
"You're the Slytherin and I'm the Gryffindor."
"Yes."
"But Slytherins and Gryffindors hate each other."
"As I said,' very different people.'"
"But I don't hate you."
John didn't hate him. John was his friend, by choice, because he liked him. John thought he was funny and brilliant and a dick, but that was fine too. It was all fine. How extraordinary. Even Mycroft only cared for him out of some pureblood family obligation. Mycroft, the Slytherin. Mycroft, who had always assumed Sherlock would be sorted as he was. Mycroft, who, with his equally brilliant mind, still didn't see him at all.
…
"Or maybe you're just a Ravenclaw."
He stared at John's face, reading the anxiety, the tension. John's eyes had always looked so inexplicably sad when Sherlock declared himself a Slytherin. Those eyes, he could see them now, with their shifting colour and endless capacity for emotion. Emotion Sherlock could never feel.
Still, if he could, he would feel it for John.
And suddenly the resonant voice of the Sorting Hat cried out above him.
"Ravenclaw!"
Sherlock and John's eyes went wide in unison, the clapping of the Ravenclaw students only a distant patter in the back of Sherlock's mind. He was stunned, unable to react, watching as John's mouth gradually curled into a satisfied (proud?) smile. Without meaning to, Sherlock's eyes immediately darted to Mycroft, seeking him out by instinct where he sat the Slytherin table. The absurdly amused expression he found gazing back at him was enough to snap him to composure.
He slid off the stool as elegantly as possible and joined his housemates at their table, which was situated between Gryffindor's and Slytherin's. He took his seat gingerly, vaguely aware of a few hands patting his back. Sherlock quickly adopted his best expression of impassiveness, straightening his posture and resolutely not making eye-contact with those around him.
When he felt sufficiently guarded, he turned his focus back to the sorting ceremony. The gaggle of prospective first years had thinned, a few having been assigned while Sherlock was collecting himself. John's back was stiff and straight, his focus locked on Lestrade as he worked his way down the list.
By the time the rest of the students were sorted and only John remained, he looked as though he might jump out of his skin.
"John Watson!" Lestrade called at last. John inhaled deeply and approached the stool with short, careful steps, clearly aware of how everyone was suddenly watching him. There seemed to be an unspoken competition between the houses over who would claim the last first year, given the spike in overall interest. A few stutters of scattered cheers began to bubble up with increasing volume.
John sat. His lip was twitching, temple flexing, jaw set. It was evident that he did not enjoy the attention.
Lestrade, after whispering something (likely assuring) that Sherlock couldn't make out, held the hat above his head and the hall hushed in an instant, humming with silent anticipation.
He lowered the hat.
And before he'd even fully seated it on his crown, the ancient voice rang out:
"Gryffindor!"
The Gryffindor table erupted in applause. John's face flushed and a wide smile spread across his lips, before he hopped from the stool and eagerly rushed to join his happy housemates. They clapped him on the back and settled him into an empty space on the bench, just behind where Sherlock himself was sitting.
Sherlock had been right, then. John was a Gryffindor. Of course he was right. He was always right. That familiar, addictive rush of smug satisfaction coursed through him. He didn't always have the benefit of cold, hard proof to demonstrate his correctness. He'd claimed John was a Gryffindor from the very beginning, way before some idiotic hat, and now John knew it.
Yet, to Sherlock's disappointment, the high of intellectual superiority was unusually short-lived. So it was official, then: he and John were in separate houses. While he'd always known logically, inevitably that such a severance was bound to occur, it didn't seem to numb the odd stinging deep in his throat. From that moment on he and John would be different, divided on sides that, while not as opposing as Slytherin to Gryffindor would have been, were most certainly not the same.
He turned his head to the side, risking a look over his shoulder at where John was sitting. To his mild surprise, John was already watching him. A beaming grin was spread on his face, though for some reason it didn't completely reach his eyes. They were apologetic, resigned.
"Told you so," he said loudly over the echoing chattering around them.
"And I told you that you'd be in Gryffindor, so we're even."
"Even? That's a first."
"Don't get accustomed to it."
Sherlock offered John a weak half-smile and opened mouth to say more but was halted by the booming voice of the headmaster reverberating through the hall. The students instantly silenced and the benches creaked as everyone turned their attention to the podium.
Headmaster Dippet (wrinkled, severely balding, age indiscernible due to complex life-lengthening spells, habitual pipe smoker) leaned heavily on the owl-adorned podium, his breathing heavy and labored.
"Welcome, students," he rasped, voice amplified by the spell (Sonorus) he'd cast on his throat. "It is your pleasure to be at Hogwarts, I am assured, and I wouldn't want to spoil it by keeping you from your food. I trust your Head Boys and Girls will fill you in on all the necessary rules. So, without further ado, let the feast begin!" Dippet snapped his fingers and in an instant all the tables bloomed with an ornate, steaming feast.
"Woah," he heard John gasp from behind him. He smirked at the sound, though he found himself to be much less impressed. His own house elves were far superior to those of the Hogwart's kitchen. Father, as with everything, had spared no expense. Additionally, Sherlock had absolutely no appetite. He watched, grimacing, as his housemates scrambled to fill their plates.
To keep from gagging at the sight of them, scavenging like ravenous ogres, he looked up at the professor's table. Dippet sat, slouching, in the grand center chair, chatting mildly to a squat, dirty-fingered woman who could only be the Herbology professor. He scanned the table further, deducing easily the subjects each professor taught by their attire and the state of their fingernails and hair. He paused briefly on Lestrade, deciding after a quick assessment that he was one of the more interesting people he'd ever met, though the reason for which was unclear without more data. He made a note to observe the man thoroughly.
When Sherlock laid eyes on the last person at the end of the table, his breath hitched unexpectedly in his throat. The professor (large dark eyes, early thirties, elegant robes) was staring at him, a wide, toothy grin stretching his mouth. Sherlock twitched and quickly looked away, staring down at his empty plate. When he risked a sidelong glance back at the man, he found his gaze as sharp and unflinching as before, the smile even wider.
"Sherlock," John said from behind him, startling him so badly that he almost knocked his cutlery to the floor. Sherlock glared at him over his shoulder.
"What?" he snapped, arching an eyebrow and finding himself strangely short of breath. He shook his head and calmed himself, sharpening his focus.
"You should eat something."
He had no idea how John knew he hadn't been eating, considering his view of Sherlock's plate was obstructed. Well, he did say John knew him better than anyone.
"Not hungry."
"Doesn't matter."
"You're bothering me."
"I'm always bothering you."
"Good point. Now leave me alone." Sherlock turned back around and crossed his arms, a deep frown in his brow. His personal eating habits were none of John's affair, no matter how often his incessant friend seemed to forget it. Besides, it wasn't like they'd ever be eating at the same table again. John would have to get used to it.
After a few long moments passed and most of his fellow Ravenclaws (muggle-born; pureblood; broken home; has a pet snowy owl; recently returned from trip to Egypt) were nearing the end of their meals, Sherlock snuck a look at John. His only friend's back was to him, but he was gesturing animatedly to a small, rapt audience. Two girls. They were smiling at him, even laughing occasionally, and leaning forward in their seats. One had dark, crimped hair and teeth too large for her mouth, the other had sandy blonde hair, much like John's, her facial features the epitome of common.
Sherlock instantly despised both of them with their eager smiles and inviting posture. Fickle, stupid, greedy Gryffindors.
He twitched when heard John say his name, unable to wipe the scowl off his face before John turned around and saw him. He tried to appear bored, impassive, and most definitely not like he'd been staring at John secretly, but was unable to gauge how successful he managed to be.
"That's him, there," John said with a proud smile, indicating Sherlock with a thumb.
"Is it true you can know everything about someone just by looking at them?" the dark-haired girl asked skeptically, challenging.
Sherlock nodded curtly.
"I was just telling Sally, here, all about that time you—"
"And I don't believe it," the girl called Sally interrupted. "You have to prove it."
"Yeah, show us!" added the blonde girl.
"Do it to me. I can handle It." Sally puffed out her chest, weaving her fingers together on the table.
"Oh, I don't think that's such a good—"
"It's fine, John. Didn't you hear her? She needs proof." Sherlock angled himself so that he could better view his charge. His eyes flashed and fingers twitched with the thrill of a case.
"Sherlock…" John said quietly in warning. Sherlock ignored him.
"Your family's poor, very poor, given the tattered state of your second-hand robes and the fraying at your collar. You're only cared for by one parent, most likely your father if the frankly alarming state of your hair is anything to go by, which it is, in addition to the masculine manner that you hold yourself. You have a brother, possibly two, but you're not close with them because they're significantly older than you and also muggles, though you hardly possess any above-average magical skill yourself. In fact, I'd wager any signs of magical ability were very late to appear, which is why you're so aggressively straining to prove yourself and your underwhelming intelligence, though it will fool few people and certainly not me."
By the time he'd finished both of the girls (who'd been fawning all over his John) had their mouths hanging open, appalled, pathetic looks on their faces. John, on the other hand, was covering his eyes with his palm, elbow braced on the table. While Sherlock could see little of his expression given the angle and barrier of his hand, he didn't fail to miss the way his fingers clenched and shook against his thigh.
"Was that proof enough for you?" Sherlock added snidely, attempting to ignore how tense his friend had become.
"You—you—" Sally sputtered.
"What is the matter with you?" snapped the blonde girl. "That was completely uncalled for."
"Yeah! Are you some kind of freak?" Sally appeared to have shaken off her initial shock and moved right into outrage, fueled by the support of her ally at her side.
"Hey! Don't call him that. You asked him to do it. I told you what he could do. It was your fault for not believing him."
Sherlock blinked at John who had removed the hand across his eyes and was now protectively inserting himself between Sherlock and Sally's lines of sight. His spine was perfectly straight, his feet planted firmly on the stone floor.
Sherlock leaned to the side so he could look over John's shoulder at Sally. She appeared to be one step away from launching herself across the table and pummeling John. Just as she opened her mouth to spew out what would inevitably be another conventional insult, they were interrupted by a familiar, taunting, bloody poncey voice.
"And just what, exactly, is going on here?" asked Mycroft, coming to loom in the aisle between John and Sherlock, his hands on his fat hips. The Head Boy badge stood out bright and obnoxious against his black robes. Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned.
"Well, we were just—" John began.
"That freak said horrible things to me!" Sally cried, pointing at Sherlock and drawing the attention of half the hall.
Mycroft looked down at Sherlock. Sherlock glared back at him.
"Is that true, Sherlock?"
A pause.
"Yes."
"See! He admits it!" Sally exclaimed in triumph.
"Now, hold on a minute—"
"Don't try to defend me, John. I did say some horrible things, it is true. Impossible not to when one is accurately describing that idiot's pathetic existence."
A series of gasps broke from the eavesdropping students around them. Sally looked as though she might splinch herself in fury. Sherlock smirked.
"Sherlock, really," Mycroft chided. "With talk like that you leave me no choice but to serve you detention and you haven't even set foot in a classroom yet."
While Mycroft appeared regretful to a common observer, but Sherlock read the blatant satisfaction in the glint of his eye.
"You can't do that," John interrupted, rising to his feet, stumbling over the bench, and crowding into Mycroft's space. "You don't even know what really happened and you're just going to give him a detention?"
Mycroft flinched, but quickly drew himself to his full height.
"The evidence to punish him is sufficient, given his own admittance to the crime."
"Crime? It's a crime, now, to be perceptive and honest when someone asks for it?"
"Take your seat, John."
"No."
"If you don't sit down and manage to calm yourself, I'll be forced to give you detention as well."
John crossed his arms and set his stance, feet shoulder-length apart. Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he inflicted the full force of his intimidation of John.
There was absolutely no effect.
The onlookers were beginning to whisper excitedly to each other, clearly impressed that a short little first year was standing up to the Head Boy just after sorting.
"Detention it is. I'll send you both notice of when it is to be served. In the mean time," Mycroft added, leaning down and lowering his register, "I suggest you worry more about your own standing in this school, rather than Sherlock's."
With a dramatic swirl of his robes Mycroft turned and stalked back the Slytherin table, his hands clenched together behind his back.
"That was foolish," Sherlock sniped quietly once John had taken his seat, keeping his back to the two girls and facing Sherlock instead. The attention of the students around them slowly waned into nonexistence, the last of their food proving more engaging. "And completely unnecessary."
"You're my friend," John sighed, as though he were mourning some unfortunate certainty.
"Sorry for the inconvenience."
"You're forgiven." John offered Sherlock a small, tired smile. "So," he said, eyes softening, "Ravenclaw, huh?"
"Don't rub it in."
Author's Note: Might be a little bit until the next chapter. I'm gonna turn my focus back to 'The First Trip' and since these 'Pensieve' chapters run long, they take some time. I promise it won't be too too long, though! And I will absolutely never ever ever abandon a project, so no worries on that front. I love this crossover too much. Way, way too much.