Albus Dumbledore meandered through the corridors, tired but pleased. The start-of-semester feast had gone as smoothly as any event involving magical teenagers might be expected to, with spirits running high as they were. The prefects were as capable, the first-years as wide-eyed, Filch as grumpy, and the food as spectacular as always. And miraculously, not even the Weasley twins had pulled off back-to-school pranks. They were as busy as everyone else staring at the Potter boy.

Albus hadn't stared, but his mind had been on little else the entire feast. Sherlock Potter was here at Hogwarts at last. The headmaster had been waiting for this year as though on tenterhooks, for a decade now. Here at last was the chance to observe the boy, evaluate him; both his abilities and how he fared under the indifferent care of Lily's sister. Also a precious opportunity for Albus to reassure himself that he had done right by the Potter child; recollection of the Dursleys' characters always left a bitter taste in his mouth.

But anything was better than the fate his parents had met.

"Sherbet lemon."

Albus nodded to the gargoyle and stepped onto the long, curving staircase leading up to his office. Obligingly, it began to move under his feet. Albus stared unseeing as the granite walls went by. Against his will, thoughts of Voldemort put him very much in mind of the gasp that had echoed around the Great Hall when the Sorting Hat announced Sherlock's place at the school. A more intriguing than worrisome development, in the headmaster's opinion. But for the boy's sake, he thought, putting a hand on the heavy wooden door, for the boy's sake he had hoped-

The boy didn't even turn as the door opened. Behind half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore blinked at the small figure perched on his chair, oversize hat sunk over his eyes. His thin arms, lanky for a child's, were crossed stubbornly over his chest.

Dumbledore let the door close with a soft 'thud' and waited. After a moment the boy pulled off the hat with a scowl and set it none too gently on the desk. Despite having been entirely absorbed in conversation, he betrayed only a small flicker of surprise at seeing the headmaster in the doorway.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," said Dumbledore gravely, sweeping across the room and conjuring up a large, overstuffed velvet armchair from thin air. Sherlock's eyes followed the wand movement, suddenly intent. Interesting how little concerned the boy seemed that he'd been caught breaking into the headmaster's office. Even his father hadn't managed that until third year.

"I would ask you to take a seat, but I see that you already have."

Sherlock scowled.

"No doubt you hoped to be gone by the time I arrived," said Dumbledore, in an understanding sort of way. "But the Sorting Hat generally gets so little social interaction, you know—and you're probably not used to anyone willing to sustain an argument for so long."

The boy's scowl grew more pronounced. "It's still wrong," he said.

"Indeed." Dumbledore removed his half-moon spectacles and began polishing them thoughtfully. "And why is that?"

Sherlock was torn between trepidation at being caught and angry suspicion that he wasn't being taken seriously. In the end, neither won out. He slumped back in the chair.

"I said it should put me in Ravenclaw. Or give me my own house. Then it said I was ambitious and manipulative—as if, that's Mycroft all over—and that I don't care about knowledge the way Ravenclaws do. Which is a stupid generalization in and of itself…I should have known, you lot have magic and all you've done is create more efficient methods of compartmentalizing people…"

Dumbledore listened carefully to the boy's rant, which lasted several minutes and contained more than a few accurate and unflattering observations about the Wizarding world (and the Sorting system in particular.) It was a welcome opportunity to observe the boy, and Albus felt the usual jolt of shock at those green eyes - Lily's eyes, through and through. No wonder Severus had glared so at the feast. Lily's eyes in James' face. Perhaps he was asking too much of the man.

As Sherlock paused for breath, Dumbledore replaced his glasses carefully on his long nose.

"Are you?" he asked mildly. Sherlock was taken aback.

"Am I what?"

"Ambitious and manipulative."

The boy crossed his arms again.

"Hardly. I don't bother with people and I don't care what they think."

"Then why do you care which House you are sorted into?"

Sherlock scowled; apparently he didn't have a good answer. Dumbledore answered his own question.

"I suppose it's understandable, given that you'll be spending seven years there."

The boy gave a bitter laugh, but stopped abruptly. Too late.

"You don't believe you will complete your schooling here?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Sherlock mumbled something under his breath. The headmaster had to lean in to catch the words, "No one else wants me for that long."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "Perhaps that is their loss," he suggested. Sherlock's only response was a loud snort.

"What about ambition?"

"What?"

"As a Slytherin. You don't believe you are ambitious?"

"No," said Sherlock wearily. "Power, influence…I wouldn't bother, even if people…I don't bother. It's boring."

"There are all sorts of ambition."

"Yes, obviously. And yet everyone assumes that all Slytherins are aiming to become the next Dark Lord." He rubbed the thin scar on his forehead in frustration.

Dumbledore caught the gesture and felt a familiar twist of conscience…but now, on his first night at Hogwarts, was not the time to tell the boy. He asked his next question, watching carefully for Sherlock's reaction.

"Are you?"

"Dull. You want someone to take over the world, ask my cousin, he never stops manipulating people. I only exist to make his life more difficult."

"Your cousin…" Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "He's not a wizard, is he?"

"Like that's going to stop him," said Sherlock darkly.

Dumbledore chuckled. "So you wanted to be in Ravenclaw? I am afraid I am inclined to agree with the Sorting Hat on this one, I don't see Ravenclaw suiting you at all."

"I didn't want Ravenclaw. I wanted to be on my own, which would apparently violate your caste system."

"Our 'caste system' is designed so that students won't be on their own. So that you can meet friends similar to yourself."

Sherlock avoided his eyes.

"There is no one similar to me." The closest was Mycroft, he thought with a shudder.

"Nevertheless, you need a family away from home."

"Yes, because thoughts of 'home' and 'family' conjure up such warm, fuzzy feelings. At least Ravenclaw wouldn't be as full of idiots. Statistically," he added with some doubt.

"Hmm." Dumbledore was gazing off into space. "Surely that depends on your definition. There are many types of 'idiot', as you say." And many more types of intelligence.

He hadn't meant to affront the boy, but Dumbledore was realizing with mild trepidation that Sherlock viewed most interactions in an antagonizing light. In fact, he seemed rather to enjoy it.

"I didn't realize it was custom for the headmaster to insult his students."

The headmaster met his gaze. "No, that's your job, isn't it?"

For the first time, Sherlock almost smiled.

"I suppose that instead, we could discuss how and why you broke into my office."

"You already know why, and as to how…" Sherlock scoffed. "I'm surprised you haven't offered me a sherbet lemon yet."

"Apologies." Dumbledore handed over the tin, trying to hide his amusement as Sherlock scowled again, and then took one. "That's quite a connection to make on your first night."

The boy shrugged. "I saw you offer them to Professors Snape and McGonagall, to annoy them. I figured it was worth a shot. It had to be something wizard children wouldn't guess." He'd been shocked, actually, when the apparently lifeless gargoyle had responded to one of his idle guesses. He would have expected to find the headmaster's rooms better secured.

"And how did you discover the location of my office?"

"Bribed a portrait. It wasn't difficult."

"How do you bribe a portrait?" asked Dumbledore interestedly. The boy hardly seemed the artistic type, but you never knew with Potters…

However, Sherlock seemed to think he'd revealed enough. Dumbledore sighed and leaned back.

"Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms," he mused. "Did you know your mother was a gifted poet?"

Sherlock scowled, apparently uncertain how to respond. Dumbledore hid another smile. "I do believe it's bedtime, Mr. Potter. Get to your dormitory, and don't get sidetracked along the way. You are not the first to question your Sorting, and I will tolerate your curiosity for tonight, but rule-breaking is not accepted at Hogwarts." He fought to keep a straight face, wondering how long it would be before young Mr. Potter met the Weasley twins. "I have enjoyed our conversation, and wish you all the best in Slytherin House."

Sherlock nodded sullenly and walked to the door, shooting a curious glance at Fawkes along the way.

"Oh, and Mr. Potter…"

The blue eyes were twinkling again.

"I realize that you have not yet met your Head of House, but…do please refrain from antagonizing Professor Snape."

As experiments went, it wasn't a particularly ethical one, but the insight gained could be valuable. And, Albus rationalized, there wouldn't be any love lost between those two anyway… He drifted into thought. If Mr. Potter reacted to risk the way he reacted to rules…

The headmaster was already beginning to regret some of his earlier announcements. He made a mental note to instruct Filch to station Mrs. Norris on the third floor.

After all, not even the Weasley twins had broken into the headmaster's office before second year.