"Potter!"
"Sherlock Potter!"
"Did you see him?"
"Have you met him?"
"Did you see his scar?"
Day one, and Sherlock's low expectations regarding his classmates were already well on their way to fulfillment. He supposed he'd been lucky for the interim of peace and quiet he'd achieved thus far; the other boys in the dormitory had (mercifully) been asleep by the time he had traced their steps to the dungeons the night before. It had occurred to him only after leaving Dumbledore's office that the instruction "get to your dormitory" had been accompanied by no directions for getting there. Somehow he doubted that this had been absentmindedness on the headmaster's part. Very well. At least they weren't setting the grade curve too low to begin with.
Sherlock remembered noticing the stream of silver and green move toward a descending staircase on the left of the Great Hall entrance, while he himself had ducked into an upward-flowing current of scarlet and gold, making himself invisible with the aid of a borrowed scarf. Only one sandy-haired first year had glanced his way in mild curiosity, distracted by the time Sherlock found an opportunity to duck into an abandoned corridor and explore.
Most people seemed to regard them as nearly invisible, but to Sherlock, speaking to the portraits lining the corridors was the most fascinating part of the evening. They, in turn, seemed flattered enough by the unaccustomed attention to tell him anything he wanted to know. And thus it was that he'd found his way to the headmaster's office far earlier than he could have hoped. Though in retrospect his timing could have been better.
Retracing his steps to the Great Hall (following an infuriating round of banter with the mangy hat and then the headmaster) should have been simplicity itself. The moving staircases, however, had other ideas. Despite Dumbledore's instructions, Sherlock found himself taking a rather meandering route. Hardly my fault, he reasoned, though the broad grin pasted across his face refused to disappear. He hadn't had this much fun since Diagon Alley.
Once Sherlock paused as he passed by a gloomy corridor, certain he heard growling. His feet were already turning in that direction when a sharp echo of footsteps forestalled any immediate inquiries, so Sherlock quickly marked the place in his head and dashed around a corner before any staff came into view.
Passing the darkened Great Hall, Sherlock bounded down wide, carpet-muffled steps. Three flights deposited him in a long hallway that sloped upward to his right. There the passage was warmly lit by burning stone lamps and smelled faintly, invitingly, of vanilla and cloves. In the other direction, candles glowed in elaborate metal wrought sconces, doing little to fight the chill rising from another stone staircase. Sherlock rolled his eyes and went left.
Following the impressions left by his classmates' feet on the carpet was simplicity itself. Sherlock had to duck behind a long curtain only once, as a silvery, blood-stained, staring ghost drifted down through the ceiling and skimmed along the carpet for several meters before dropping through it. The traces of footprints ended a few turns later, at a blank stretch of wall. The passage was marked only by a large emerald-green tapestry with a sort of Celtic tree design set in the opposite wall.
Sherlock ran two fingers along the smooth surface, supposing that it would open to some sort of password. There were no portraits in this hallway, and his chances of making a correct guess were negligible at best.
"Alohamora!" he tried under his breath, rapping his wand on the wall, but it did no more than expected. Stepping away, however, Sherlock noticed a small, curving pattern above the baseboard; not an entirely blank wall after all. It wasn't until he had leaned down to trace it with one finger that Sherlock realized the pattern depicted tiny snakes with rhythmically intertwined bodies. The longer he stared, the more they seemed to twist and move before his eyes.
Then came a flash of wandlight and the light thud of two sets of footsteps around the corner by which he had come. As Sherlock turned toward the sound, making the split-second decision whether to run or conceal himself, his eye caught by the border of the tapestry behind him. There again was depicted the twining pattern, the reflected wandlight catching in the mirrored eyes of a hundred tiny serpents...
"Open," Sherlock hissed, hardly knowing what made him say it. At once the wall vanished, and before him gaped a grand marble archway. Sherlock slid through as footsteps and soft laughter rounded the corner, and the doorway sealed itself behind him.
Sherlock awoke to familiar green eyes blinking down at him.
"About time." He stroked Belinda's ears. "I haven't seen you since we stepped off the boat. I suppose you know every inch of the castle now?"
Belinda mewed. Sherlock grinned. "I'll take that as affirmation."
Judging by the cacophony around him, Sherlock guessed that most of his new housemates were already up and half-dressed. Plagued more by his racing thoughts than the uncomfortable drowsiness of overeating, Sherlock himself hadn't dropped into bed until nearly midnight, slipping past the murmuring occupants of a half-dozen beds until he located his own trunk at the foot of the four-poster nearest the window. Then he'd lain awake for an hour or so, drawing the curtains and flicking silent spells at the ceiling. One or two simple charms to ensure privacy from his dormmates, the others for the mere pleasure of watching sparks curl through the darkness accompanied by the gentle lapping sound of water.
Shrugging into his own, now green-trimmed robes, Sherlock pulled back his bedside curtains with a lazy flick of his wand. Several boys were fastening their cloaks with small silver pins—coats of arms, Sherlock guessed, remembering the elaborate tapestry outside the common room. Family was evidently important here. One or two of the boys were still snoring, but he guessed that most had been woken by the bedside lamps flickering on at seven o'clock. Certainly the morning light wavering through the window wouldn't have done it—Sherlock cast a glance at the glass to confirm his previous night's guess. Sure enough, what little light came through was filtered through murky lakewater.
The muted conversation between the boys rose in volume and excitement as they compared wands and shoved books into schoolbags. Sherlock gave Belinda a final rub behind the ears and moved towards the door, ignoring the chatter—that is, until he was arrested by a thin, haughty voice behind him.
"So it's true, what everyone was saying yesterday on the train. Sherlock Potter has come to Hogwarts."
Sherlock paused in the doorway. Briefly he considered ignoring the challenge, if challenge it was—but why not have this conversation now, and in relative privacy. Gather some data on his fellow Slytherins, whose stares the night before had ranged from familiar admiration to outright hostility.
So Sherlock pivoted toward the owner of the voice. His appearance, unsurprisingly, matched his tone…posh, arrogant, sure of himself. Like Sherlock, the boy was tall for his age but rather thin, with white-blonde hair sleeked back from a pale, pointed face. He had taken up the bed nearest the doorway—or furthest from the lake—thought Sherlock in mild contempt, and was flanked by a couple of other boys who could have given Uncle Vernon a run for his money in both IQ and sheer bulk. They were wearing identical, gargoyle-like grins. Sherlock winced at the sight, unprepared for exposure to so much stupid so early in the morning.
The boy stepped forward with his hand outstretched, and Sherlock noticed the silver clasp pinning his cloak beneath his chin. He'd been right about the coat of arms; this one contained an elaborately wrought 'M' with crossed wands and what looked like peacock feathers fanning behind it. The cloak, too, was finely made, edged in silver, and the dark wood of the wand handle poking from his pocket already had a touch of wear. All in all, his appearance couldn't have screamed "Pureblood!" any louder if it had been stamped across his forehead.
"Name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."
Sherlock considered for a moment and then extended his own hand. Briefly.
"Sherlock."
"Bit unexpected to find a Potter Sorted into Slytherin."
"Oh? What would you expect?"
The boy shrugged, lip curling in a slight sneer. "Gryffindor, of course." Several of the other boys let out low jeers, and Sherlock felt the corner of his own mouth twist in disgust—honestly, this was supposed to be one of the intelligent Houses?
Draco evidently mistook Sherlock's expression as due contempt for the Lions rather than the banality of his own Housemates. His pointed chin lifted slightly as he surveyed Sherlock in approval.
The blonde boy gestured toward the sound of footsteps pounding down to the common room. "Most of our families have been in Slytherin for centuries. What's your story, then, Potter?"
Sherlock was turning away, already bored. "I suspect you've already heard it."
"'Course, except where you've been for the past ten years. Lots of rumors flying around after You-Know-Who—"
"Yes, you'd know all about those, wouldn't you?"
Malfoy flushed.
"I'd tread a bit more carefully if I were you, Potter. I think you'll find that at Hogwarts some friendships are more…advantageous than others."
"Thanks, but I consider myself married to my schoolwork," Sherlock drawled. Malfoy flushed a deeper pink.
"Final word, Potter?"
"Really, Draco. I fail to see what I could possibly be expected to glean from friendship with a narcissistic mama's boy with a pet eagle owl, pathological fear of the dark, and a passing knowledge of the most basic hexes known to wizardkind…I'd really have thought your parents would have trained you more thoroughly," Sherlock added as an afterthought. He deflected Draco's curse with a lazy slash of his wand. "Delighted to make your acquaintance. Good day."
By the end of his first week, Sherlock (or rather, the miniscule portion of his mind that took notice) thought that no one could ever hate him worse than Draco Malfoy.
He was wrong.
Which would have been momentous enough in and of itself, but as it happened, he was spectacularly wrong.
Friday was an important day for John Watson. He and Neville finally succumbed to the practical necessity of tailing someone who actually knew where they were going though the labyrinthine castle, and as a result made their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost once.
"Will you quit that!" huffed John in exasperation, as Neville whipped behind a banister for the third time. Hermione had paused at the foot of the final staircase, ostensibly to adjust her bookbag, but John had a nasty suspicion that she was beginning to cotton on to her utility as navigator for the rest of the first years. There was a slight amused tilt to her eyebrow as the boys edged around her into the Hall, and it seemed to say, Who said girls can't keep a map in their heads?
John groaned to himself. It hadn't been him, that was for sure. Vaguely he wondered whether Ron regretted it yet. He and Seamus were probably lost in the passage behind the vanishing bookcases again.
Neville nudged John out of his thoughts. "Scary, that one," he muttered, with a backward jerk of his chin. "I told you we should've followed Ron's brothers instead…"
"What, and taken our lives in our hands?" John dropped his voice as they approached the Gryffindor table. "They'd probably lead us straight into the Forbidden Forest…or, I dunno, the lake…"
"Without leaving the castle?" Neville joked nervously.
"Wouldn't put it past them."
They seated themselves at the Gryffindor table, a cautious distance from Fred and George. Across the table sat a cloud of steam wafting from an oversized mug of coffee. John squinted through it and recognized a curly-haired third-year from the train.
"Morning, Sally," he greeted. "Are you trying to give yourself a heart attack with that much caffeine at age thirteen, or just stunt your growth?"
"We're not all midgets, Watson," she grinned. "Managed to find your way without following Granger yet?"
"I don't understand how she knows her way around this death-trap of a boarding school already," John moaned as he reached for a platter of scrambled eggs. "Unless there's a map in Hogwarts, A History. Wish GPS worked at Hogwarts."
Sally grimaced her agreement. "What've you got today?"
Neville's round face paled as he scanned his schedule.
"Double Potions with the Slytherins, first thing."
"Potions?" A familiar voice interrupted the conversation. The next moment its owner materialized in a cloud of freckles from behind a couple of burly sixth years. Ron, Dean and Seamus slid into the last three empty seats at the end of the table. "That's Snape's class, isn't it?"
"You three got lost in the passage behind the bookcases again, didn't you?" Sally snickered. "How's that superior sense of direction working out?"
Dean elbowed Seamus. Ron merely glared, sipping at his pumpkin juice in a valiant attempt at dignified silence until John took mercy and returned to the topic at hand.
"Snape teaches Potions, yeah, why?"
"Snape's head of Slytherin, isn't he?" Ron tipped half a jug of syrup over his plate and stabbed three or four waffles at once. "They say he always favors them—we'll be able to see if it's true."
"Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
"A systematic grilling regarding your intentions," said Sherlock without really thinking. "At least, that's what I got when I tried it."
He only looked around when the class tittered. Truth be told, Sherlock's attention, which should have been drawn to the imposing figure at the head of the room, had instead caught on a shelf full of bottled Murtlap tentacles in various stages of decay. Fascinating. They'd come in quite handy for healing potions, he thought, mildly impressed. How exactly did you attain that level of putrefaction? Aside from sheer force of personality, that is.
Sherlock blinked. He'd made a joke, even if it was only in his head. Well, it wasn't as though anyone else would've understood it anyway; although to judge from the reactions to the melodramatic little welcoming speech he hadn't listened to, they would have appreciated it if they had.
Snape scowled to demonstrate a not-so-subtle displeasure with this response (or perhaps he could read minds; nothing could be ruled out at this point), but pointedly ignored a girl on the Gryffindor side of the room who sat forward eagerly, hand straining upward.
"One more chance, Potter."
Sherlock sighed and dredged the question back up from his fading short-term deletion queue. "Draught of Living Death."
Mycroft, he had discovered, was such a drama queen about poisons. Even if they didn't technically kill.
Professor Snape raised an unwilling eyebrow. Correct, apparently. Though if Sherlock thought that was the end of it, he was mistaken.
"Potter, where would you go if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Why would I want to? Sherlock refrained from asking, a faint echo of the headmaster's instructions filtering into recollection. His brow furrowed slightly. Obviously Dumbledore knew something he didn't; it was already fairly plain that this man despised him. And was that a trick question?
Something caught at the corner of his eye. Might as well give a rational answer.
"The potions cupboard?" he replied cautiously. There were more choked giggles scattered across the room. A tousle-haired boy from the Gryffindor side of the room caught his eye and grinned, though he dropped his gaze fairly quickly.
Snape swept to a stop in front of his new least-favorite-student and leveled a dangerous glare. "What was that?" The tone was silk. Poisoned silk. Now there was an experiment …no, leave it, focus.
Choosing to obey the (admittedly small) portion of brain housing his survival instinct, Sherlock shook away the distraction and snorted. "Sir, by the time you needed a bezoar, time constraints would leave us a bit beyond the goat-slaughtering stage, don't you think?"
Smothered giggles across the dungeon. Sherlock reluctantly concluded that his survival instinct was possibly less intact than previously thought; Snape obviously thought the same. The coal-black eyes were boring into his.
Emphasis on boring. Dear Merlin, what was wrong with him today? Either the palpable aura of menace was doing something to his sanity, or Sherlock was more bored than he thought.
Bored...no, that didn't make sense. Whatever this week had been, it wasn't tedious. The castle alone was enough to keep him busy for weeks, and when you added magic into the mix...not he had Belinda. Merlin knew she was better company than the idiots he called classmates, most of whom were apparently capable of nothing more than stares and whispers-or, in Malfoy's case, outright hostility. Still, Sherlock all-too-frequently found himself brushing off an irksome, familiar feeling that rose up whenever he sat by himself in the Great Hall, or paused for a moment to adjust his bookbag and heard footsteps and laughter flow by in the corridors. Even here, something was missing.
"Let's try one more, Potter, without the cheek, unless you're aiming to spend your second week at Hogwarts in detention. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Sherlock closed his eyes, ignoring the bushy-haired Gryffindor girl, who was now positively hopping up and down in her seat. Another trick question, but an obvious, dull one this time. Which meant it was safer, probably, not to answer, but…
"Linguistics. Pointless redundancy if you ask me." Hah, he'd made another pun. Aloud this time. And it had gone entirely unappreciated, to judge from Sherlock's new least-favorite-professor's expression. People said he had no sense of humor.
'Safe' had never really been his thing anyway.