A/N: This chapter isn't new. I found an older draft with a Sorting scene that helps to fill things in nicely, so I went back and added it as chapter 8. Apologies for the reshuffle, shouldn't happen again. Ch. 12 is new, however.

Eleven-year-olds, Hermione Granger was quickly learning, were the same everywhere.

The letter delivered earlier that summer had, she thought, been a confirmation of everything she had known for a long time. She was different. Despite the fact that she always knew more, cared more, than the other kids at school, the few friendships she'd managed were more of acquaintanceships. It was hard to be close to people with no apparent desire to engage intellectually in anything. Even more impossible to feign interest in the things she was meant to care about—clothes and boys, apparently.

I'm eleven years old, she had fumed a thousand times, suppressing a sigh. What a dull charade.

And no end in sight. Heaven knew it would only get worse as they got older.

Everything made sense when the letter came. Surely magic was the answer, the difference between herself and them, the reason she never fit in. But that would change now. It seemed that her heart had taken up a new, wilder rhythm from the moment she had first cracked her new schoolbooks. An entire world had suddenly opened up within the smooth pages, full of magic and adventure and, best of all, people like her.

And Hogwarts was everything she had imagined it would be. With the exception of the students. One red-haired, long-nosed, misogynistic student in particular, with the table manners of a warthog. Hermione had no idea what she'd done to earn Ron Weasley's dislike, but in fairness, it wasn't difficult to do. Ron despised an entire quarter of the school on what he considered principle. He wasn't alone, either. Hermione had been a little shocked to learn that many of the other Gryffindors shared the sentiment against Slytherin House. It was well beyond the point of healthy House spirit, in her opinion.

In her case, Hermione suspected that sheer ability accounted for Ron's dislike. It was before she realized why - the kid was a walking insecurity. Every time one of his many brothers' accomplishments came up in conversation he went pink around the ears and very quiet. Probably he was chagrined that the magical prowess of a girl with non-magical parents so thoroughly exceeded his own. But that didn't mean Hermione was about to forgive his rudeness.

Some of the other first-years were decent. Hermione had had little chance to interact with the other Houses, but the girls in her dormitory - Lavender and Parvati - weren't outright hostile. They had little to say to one another, though. It might have something to do with the piles of books around Hermione's bed and her total unfamiliarity with Wizarding pop culture. A couple of the boys seemed all right. Seamus and Dean were cut from the same cloth as Ron, as far as Hermione was concerned, but she felt a certain warmth toward John and Neville. The two boys had recognized one another from outside Hogwarts and immediately cemented their bond. They were boys, to be sure, but showed signs of something in their heads aside from athletics and ego. Sometimes they included her in conversation at mealtime, and John had recommended a few titles to help fill in the Muggle-Wizard culture gap.

"My dad's a soldier in the British army," he had confided to Hermione, as an aside. "Mum bought him some references when they married. He deals with Wizard stuff pretty well, actually, considering we live in the thick of it."

Hermione had been so eager to get to the library that she hadn't prolonged the conversation, an omission she now regretted. People, at times, made better resources than books...she thought begrudgingly.

Hogwarts held potential. Potential for at least one friend.

By their third Charms class, tensions between Ron and Hermione had built up to the point that John really wasn't certain who would snap first. That Flitwick paired the two of them to practice the levitation charm they were learning was just plain bad luck.

Sure enough, it wasn't fifteen minutes into class before they were snarling at each other. Ron's frustration with the charm did not help matters.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" he bellowed, brandishing his wand with such force that John, sitting across the aisle, ducked instinctively. Hermione seized Ron's wrist before he could do anyone a permanent injury.

"You're saying it wrong," John heard her snap. "It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the gar nice and long." Ron was opening his mouth to retort when a quiet voice from behind interrupted.

"You're both wrong, actually."

Hermione scraped her chair around so quickly that John could have sworn he saw sparks flying from the stone floor. "Excuse me?"

The boy sitting behind them—tall, pale, and dark-haired—had somehow escaped being paired with anyone. To judge from the depths of smugness in his expression, this was an engineered omission. He was slightly familiar—John remembered catching a glimpse of him on the train, and later at the feast there had been murmurs of surprise and even a few gasps of outrage when the Sorting Hat called "Slytherin!" Hermione had asked why, and Sally had leaned excitedly across the table to answer. "That's Sherlock Potter, haven't you heard? And he's a Slytherin!"

It was a shock to every Wizardborn child in the room - even those who, like John, had given only glancing thought to the coincidence of their school years with Potter's. John didn't envy him—the whispers, the rumors, the distaste on the boy's face as he watched the trimmings on his robe change to green. Not to mention the distance he'd so far maintained from the rest of the students. Understandable, that. If John had had whispers surrounding him from the moment he set foot on the train, he'd want everyone to sod off too.

Aside from the brief, bewildering exchange with Snape in Potions the other day, Potter had kept his head down in classes as well. Now, however, he was smirking openly at the expression on Hermione's face.

"Pronunciation has nothing to do with the potency of the spell," he said, in a tone dripping even more condescension than Hermione's had. "Unless you prefer to handicap yourself by directing your energy into meaningless detail. The incantation itself is merely a tool for beginners and inferior minds to focus their magic." His raised eyebrow seemed to ask, "Which are you?"

Hermione straightened, and John could have sworn he heard lightning crackle in her bushy hair.

"For your information," she began hotly, "the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1—"

"—was written for the likes of them." Sherlock indicated the rest of the class with a disinterested wave of his hand. John glanced around at his classmates: some shouting at the top of their lungs, as Ron had been, others red in the face from the effort of trying to force magic through their wands. Flitwick hurried to and fro, correcting posture and offering advice, but it would be at least ten minutes before he came their way. John's own feather hadn't budged yet; might as well see if this arrogant prick knew what he was talking about.

"What makes you think pronunciation doesn't matter?" he cut in, before the boy's Cheshire cat grin could fray the last threads of Hermione's patience.

"Logic," said the boy simply, twirling his wand. "And experimentation. Research has shown that nonverbal spells, when performed by a competent wizard,"—pronouncing 'competent' in the same tone that most people reserved for 'diamond-encrusted vial of phoenix tears'—"are just as effective, or more so, than verbal ones. This fact provides weighty evidence that beyond a certain point, the verbal use of a Latin derivative is not only unnecessary, but obstructive to unlocking more powerful magic. When the word itself becomes a point of focus it should be regarded as a crutch. A distraction."

"If that's the case, why haven't any of the professors mentioned it?" Hermione was haughtily skeptical.

"There are a good many things the professors won't mention to first-years, Granger. I'd look beyond the assigned material if I were you."

Hermione stiffened.

"You think I don't—"

But the boy merely waved his hand again.

"Just because it hasn't been assigned yet doesn't mean it won't be. I'm not talking about memorizing the Standard Book of Spells. It may come as a shock, but those are standard. There are things most people never bother to find out about magic."

John cut in before Potter could antagonize Hermione any more. "Hang on, are you saying you can make that feather float without the incantation?"

A smile played around the boy's lips. "I could."

"That's ridiculous." Hermione folded her arms. "You're a first-year."

Sherlock ignored this. "I could, but I think my point might be better established by…"

"Let's see it, then," broke in Ron, redirecting his smirk. Much as he had enjoyed watching Hermione taken down a few pegs, John could tell he was beginning to consider her the lesser of two evils.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then shrugged and pointed his wand at the feather. "Fly," he said without preamble. It lifted obligingly off the desk and swung gently in the air before their eyes.

Hermione was staring. "That's…"

"Impossible," stuttered Ron. "That's bloody impossible." He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "It's some sort of trick."

"The trick is not getting distracted by an arbitrary jumble of syllables," retorted Sherlock. Without lowering his wand, he swung his feet up on the desk and buried his nose in a book, clearly through with the conversation. John watched as the feather drifted higher and higher toward the ceiling.

Hermione turned back around without another word and lost herself in thought for the remainder of class. Although she did manage an unenthusiastic (but still highly effective) Wingardium Leviosa when Flitwick came by.

The lunch bell rang and Ron was still fuming.

"She's a nightmare, honestly," Hermione heard him snarl to Dean and Seamus as they filed out of the classroom. "He's the same. No wonder neither of them have any friends."

The words were a blow she wasn't prepared for, and Hermione faltered, choking back a sob. Before the tears could spill from her eyes, however, another voice came from behind.

"Weasley's an idiot, ignore him. Like I said, anyone can pick up on the basics, but no one bothers to understand them."

The Slytherin boy offered her half a smile before disappearing down a corridor that most certainly did not lead to the Great Hall. Hermione felt herself halt, tears forgotten, staring at the space where he had stood.

No one bothers to understand.

Was that an offer of friendship, or a dare?

In Hermione Granger's experience, the world held far too few of either. Challenge bloody accepted, then.

It never occurred to Sherlock, as weeks of school passed, to question his own lack of companionship. Life had always been that way, why should it change here? Others at the Muggle school he'd gone to had had their groups of friends - or sycophants, in the case of Mycroft - but Sherlock had never felt any desire to unite himself to one. Besides, he had Belinda, and an entire magical castle to explore, and then, when he exhausted that, a forest intriguingly labeled "Forbidden"...

And books. There was so much to learn. Sherlock was quickly making good on his promise to inform himself about the Wizarding World, both within and outside of class. His self-taught crash course on potion brewing over the summer had taught him, if not how to brew a perfect Sleeping Draught, at least how not to do it. This turned out to be fortunate, as Snape, his Head of House, was uncommonly eager to jump on Sherlock's every mistake. Most often, however, the potions master was forced to pass him by in grudging silence. Sherlock understood potion-making in the way he understood chemistry: instinctively. Already he'd begun lists of ingredients with shared properties. The problem was that these were often as disparate as powdered garnet and pickled rat tails. No matter. Sherlock would unravel the science beneath potion brewing if he had to approach Professor Snape himself.

But that was only one field of inquiry, out of many. A whole parallel world had been opened to him. Any scholar would have wept, out of more than just joy.

In that regard Hermione was very useful. Her mind was a little lacking in originality, it was true, but her research skills far outstripped his own. Hermione was methodical and dispensed with the flights of distraction that Sherlock was prone to. Best of all, she was ridiculously easy to lead on. All Sherlock had to do was mention a scrap of information about a subject that interested him, and insinuate that he knew more about it than she, and the next time he saw her she would have imbibed several books on the subject. And like most children who are too smart for their own good, she loved to talk about what she learned - regardless of whether anyone was listening.

Sherlock was listening. The others were fools not to. Granger was a walking SparkNotes page.

Hermione was also one of the few Gryffindors who didn't avoid Slytherins out of sheer principle. This was fortunate, since by the end of the first week Sherlock had so thoroughly alienated his own housemates that none of them would so much as speak to him. Well, almost none. A cheerful, round-faced boy named Mike Stamford had insinuated admiration for the way Sherlock had shrugged off Malfoy, that first morning.

"Purebloods think they own the place," he'd said in a low tone, slapping Sherlock on the shoulder in a friendly sort of way. Sherlock gathered from this that Stamford was a half-blood, probably of the second or third generation. He had pasted up no stationary family portraits and wore none of the touches like electronic wristwatches that ignorant Muggleborns brought to Hogwarts, and which brought dismay when they ceased to work within hours.

Halfbloods made up the majority of the school, and no wonder. Some of Madam Pince's old genealogies had so many crisscrossing lines they looked like macrame, according to Hermione. And while Sherlock was far from certain about what macrame might be, he understood the essence: wizards would have died out centuries before if none had resorted to marriage with Muggles. He made a careful note not to mistake his Housemates' attitudes for public opinion on the matter.

The Daily Prophet was good for gauging Wizarding attitudes too, although more often than not Sherlock grew bored of the major articles and flipped to the tiny Auror's report on page 11. This, he had discovered early on, was a good indication of the unrest one could get up to in the magical world, and the disapprobation one might expect - if caught. Not that Sherlock intended anything illegal, but you never knew.

"Potter! Hey, Potter!"

Sherlock turned, shifting his bookbag to his left shoulder. It was noteworthy to hear his name from someone his own age; few of the Slytherins spoke to him anymore. The voice was familiar, though not very. He had had a conversation with its owner once.

The owner caught up before Sherlock's recall did. A small boy his own age, squarely built, though not stout. Sandy brown hair and wide blue eyes, which gave him an open, almost naive expression. Sherlock remembered catching a glimpse of him on the Hogwarts Express and thinking, this one has no trouble making friends.

He had the most boring name imaginable. What was it? Jordan?

"John," John said, holding out his hand. "Sorry to track you down like this. It's Sherlock, right? Sherlock Potter?"

As though he doesn't know. But Sherlock shook the proffered hand. "Yes."

John looked embarrassed. "Look, I know we've barely met, but I've got to talk to you."

"Can it wait?" Sherlock asked bluntly. "I've got some sea slugs simmering in the dungeons. Should be approaching jelly by now."

"I'll come with you."

This wasn't at all what Sherlock had meant, but he shrugged and let himself be followed. Very few people tried to talk to him, after all. John might turn out to be a greater novelty than the sea slugs. Probably not, but maybe.

"So, er," John panted as they rounded a second stairwell. Sherlock's legs were much longer than his. "Tell me about yourself, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"What?" asked John blankly.

"Why do you want to know about me? You already know everything of note."

John shook his head. "I know about You-Know-Who, if that's what you mean. I'm sorry about your parents. But I don't know you you."

"There's nothing to know," said Sherlock. His indifferent tone made the statement difficult to take seriously. Though difficult to offend, John was beginning to be seriously annoyed. Nothing worse than carrying a dying conversation on one's back, and they weren't anywhere near the topic he intended to bring up.

A thought occurred: possibly Potter was dismissive because he assumed John was only interested in his fame. This thought should have been calming; instead it irritated John even more.

"I'm not some groupie," he said, with more sarcasm in his tone than he intended. "Sorry if you're sick of the fame, but I don't personally give a damn about it. Keep your mysterious past quiet, if that's what you want."

They had passed the door to Potions in a whirl, but Sherlock stopped at the entrance to a narrow cubby off the corridor. Beyond the doorway a cauldron bubbled, releasing orange smoke and a truly terrible smell. A long-furred black cat poked its head around the corner; John wrinkled his nose at it.

"Old Potions master's office," Sherlock said. "Before Snape worked his literal magic on adding one to the classroom. More of a broom closet, really. Why are you angry?"

There was no indignation in the tone. John searched Potter's face for sarcasm, but found none; the clear green eyes were fixed on him expectantly.

"Because no one is nothing," he said finally. "If you don't want to talk about yourself, fine, but don't be rude about it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved toward his bubbling cauldron, dropping immediately to his stomach to see how high the flames flared.

"I wasn't being facetious. My parents died to a genocidal freak; I didn't. I live with Muggles, which can't possibly interest you; I'm here now. There is nothing else to know."

John decided to drop the topic. "Fine. There is one other thing, though."

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock distantly. He was on his feet now, the black cat circling him like a miniature satellite, letting out a rumbling purr. She leapt onto his shoulder with perfect balance and Sherlock stroked her absently with one hand. With the other he dipped his wand in the cauldron, giving it an experimental twirl. When he withdrew it, a clear, repulsive gel slid off the end. Almost the right consistency.

John wrinkled his nose again, this time against the smell. "Hermione."

"Beg pardon?"

"I've seen what you're doing to Hermione," John repeated clearly. "And it's got to stop."

He had Potter's attention now. The latter stopped wiping his wand on the hem of his robes and looked up in disbelief.

"What am I doing to her?"

"Pretending to be her friend," said John, "just so you can get information out of her. It's sick and wrong."

"I never claimed to be Granger's friend."

"Maybe not in words. But she thinks you are."

"Why is that bad?"

"She's running errands for you constantly."

Sherlock snorted. "For me? She's running them for herself, Jim-"

"John. John Watson."

"John, then. Are we talking about the same Hermione? She would be in the library all day every day, with or without my influence."

"I don't care," said John flatly. "That's her choice. But you're using her, manipulating her, with your so-called 'friendship'. I'm telling you to stop, or I'll tell her what's really going on."

"You amaze me," said Sherlock, turning his back; disliking the movement, Belinda jumped to the ground and stretched. "You tell me Granger thinks we're friends. I tell you we're not - I've never bestowed that title on anyone and don't intend to. Now you're threatening to punish me by ending my nonexistent friendship. What should I be worried about, exactly?"

The loss of your toady, John intended to say, but he was distracted.

"You really mean that, Potter? No friends at all?"

"What do you expect?" demanded Sherlock, stirring his potion again. "Remember my House? Half my classmates' parents were Voldemort's lackeys, according to Wizengamot records. I'm lucky not to be hexed in my sleep."

Silence.

"Doesn't that bother you?" asked John, tentatively.

Sherlock appeared genuinely surprised at the question. "Why? I'm not bored." A gesture toward the cauldron.

He seemed sincere. John sighed.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry you're stuck with Malfoy and the rest. Even if you are the complete and utter sociopath you're acting towards Hermione."

"I am."

"Seriously?"

Sherlock raised his shoulders. The two boys stood listening to the unpalatable noises from the cauldron.

"Is the lecture over?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure," John said, drained by the conversation and the room's stuffiness. "Fine. Let me put it this way. I catch you being a jerk to Hermione, I hex you." He turned to go.

The strange boy appeared neither threatened nor insulted. "Militant," he mused, looking John up and down. "I suppose that fits."

"Fits what?" John demanded.

"Your father," said Sherlock.

John whirled. "What about him?"

"Militant," repeated Sherlock. "Like you." Then, raising an eyebrow, "I do believe you're late for Transfiguration."

The bell chose that moment to ring, and John groaned inwardly. Transfiguration was four floors above. He was in for a detention, even with Neville covering for him. Still, an absence would be much worse.

"This conversation isn't over," he said simply, thrusting his hands in his pockets.

"Okay," said Sherlock absently, now flipping through a Potions book. And John departed with the uncomfortable sense of not knowing just how angry to be.