TW: Implications of physical and verbal child abuse.
Hello! I'm blueredstar, and I have been slowly going mad over this Johnlock alternate universe story for over two years now.
It's basically Harry Potter, but John is the chosen one, and Sherlock is Sherlock (and kind of another chosen one, in a sense. You'll see.)
There are some direct quotes and references to the book "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone", so all credit goes to the author.
Enjoy!
A heavy knock thundered on the door, nearly making John jump out of the bed. If it wasn't for the sudden dry wave he'd swear it really was a thunder, since as far as he knew both sounds came from upwards. But Aunt Bertha's knocks were rattled, and Uncle Albert hardly ever bothered to come. Unless…
He had gone to sleep wishing his uncles would come to congratulate his sister's 'Happy Birthday', even if, by now, he should've known better. Their birthdays were never fun — last year, the Dillard's gave him a coat hanger and a pair of old socks. And yet, when he first heard the noise, he couldn't help the images of bright smiles and clapping and sing-songs surging up.
Another bang. Time to face it: whoever was banging the basement's door mid-dawn wasn't bringing any cake.
While waiting for someone to intervene seemed like a stupid decision, staying under the duvets and carrying on was even stupider. It was impossible that no-one else had heard the pounding. Although they didn't know any of the neighbours, and Uncle hated coming over especially for emergencies, there was Harriet.
Harriet, who still wheezed dreamily.
Rolling his eyes, John brotherly pushed her out of bed.
Mumbling incohesive words, Harriet half-opened one eye, just enough to sisterly pull him too. But, unfortunately, her sleep-addled mind didn't count on her body breaking his fall.
"Ugh- get off!"
"I'm trying to!"
A very pointy shin kicked his belly. "GET OFF!"
Finally breaking through the jumble of mattress, John looked up to the hatchway. The badgering had suddenly ceased.
"Jerk," he heard Harriet muttering while straighting up her side of the bed.
"How can you even sleep so much?! There was, like, this huge noise right at our door," He pointed to the hatchway. "What if it was a smuggler? What if they killed me while you slept, huh?"
"Then I'd have more space to sleep," she sighed. John rolled his eyes.
Too adrenaline-pumped to keep his eyes closed, the boy stood up, watching the hatchway as if it could burst open at any moment. He was sure he hadn't imagined the noise, even though he had heard one too many times how his condition made him unable to discern between fiction and reality.
Calling the police crossed his mind, and it wouldn't be the first time he had to do so. But Uncle Albert hated dealing with the cops, and John knew by now not to make his Uncle unhappy. Besides, what if it truly had been his imagination? Talking about his condition made Uncle even more unhappy.
BAM. As suddenly as it went away, the knocking resumed. John's chest squeezed, making it hard to breathe.
"I can't believe you were actually serious," Harriet half-whispered to him, annoyed enough to finally stand up with him. "What do you think is going on?"
The hammering that followed engulfed whatever answer John could come up with.
He locked his eyes with Harriet. She had always been stronger than him, perhaps due to the innate recklessness that came with being a child. Many times he had wondered if that was why he had to worry for the both of them, or if that came with being the older brother.
Wiping off his sweating hands on his flimsy trousers, John almost wished he could use his condition to forbid the door from opening. But that only seemed to work when he least wanted it to.
One time, Aunt Bertha had been trying to force him into an ugly old coat of Bennie's, his cousin, except the harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet but certainly wouldn't fit John. (Even if the school boys had taken to calling him 'puppet' for his low height). The timing couldn't have been worse. Aunt Bertha didn't buy that it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great dismay, he was forbidden from wearing anything but his old grey shirt for the remainder of the month.
There was also that one incident when Bennie's gang had been chasing him as usual ('You can't run for long, Puppet!', they chanted) when, as much to John's surprise as to anyone else's, there he was, suddenly sitting on the chimney. The Dillard's had received a very angry letter from John's headmistress telling them John had been climbing school buildings, even though he couldn't even jump over the house's fence (he had tried once and ended up ripping off his pants; at least it made Harriet laugh). Uncle Albert obviously didn't believe that the wind must have caught him in mid-jump, and John — and also Harriet by default — were left locked away in the basement while the Dillard's were in the zoo celebrating Bennie's birthday.
Harriet had never gone to the zoo. Neither had John, but Harriet should have been there, not locked inside the house because of John's misdeeds. She kept saying it wouldn't be fun anyway because Bennie's friends would be there as well, but he knew better. Sometimes he wished he didn't.
Again, another pause. John almost groaned in frustration; he wouldn't put it besides Bennie to prank-scare them in the middle of the night. Yeah, he thought to himself in steady breaths. That was probably it.
"I'm going out," Harriet stated. John impulsively grabbed her by her shirt's collar.
"You- We can't leave! At best, it's just Bennie trying to riddle us up, at worse-"
Harriet grimaced. "Now I'm especially going out! I've been wanting to kick his ugly nose anyway-"
An abrupt flash of red light glowed from the basement's gaps, and the hatchway was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges. There was a deafening crash; the door had fallen to the floor, missing them by a hair's breadth.
John hastily put his arms around Harriet and pushed her to his back — and for once, she was speechless enough to let him do it.
A man stared down at them. The low light coming from the street accentuated his wrinkles, few and in-between as they were. Although his salt and pepper hair begged to differ, the man really couldn't be that old. However, the first thing that remarked John was the stranger's clothing: a bright, yellow, not-at-all-practical-for-summer robe that glinted even in the dark room.
John couldn't say he knew what to expect, but it certainly wasn't... that.
Ignoring the small, used ladder, the man jumped his way into the basement turned bedroom, while John looked over his sister, whose eyes were as wide as two apples. "Bullocks," the man muttered as he stared at the door on the floor, his mouth slightly curved downward. Taking a deep breath, he finally turned to look at them.
There was hint of a smile before the stranger sat right on the floor with a sigh, resting his back on the wall behind. Harriet squeaked, and John for once followed his gut, rapidly taking the two steps back to their bed with her in his arms. He couldn't care less if that'd render him a shouting match for trying to babysit her. Her loud heartbeat drummed on his hands, and he didn't doubt his own was much behind.
"So," The man started, "I figure you don't happen to have a cuppa close, eh?"
The siblings stared at him from the other side of the room.
"Harriet! Last time I saw you, you were only a babe," The man's eyes crinkled in a smile. "And John," His voice faltered, "Merlin's beard, you look a damn lot like Hamish, but you've got your mamma's eyes." While he looked around the room for the first time, John and Harriet exchanged similar curious glances.
No one ever talked about their parents.
"You can talk, y'know," The man tried to move, but soon enough resigned to where he was. The room was barely enough for two children, and now it included a fallen door and a grown adult. "It's not that hard to make a muffing spell, even though the old man told me to avoid magicness, to hell with that," he babbled the last part. John couldn't understand half of everything the man chattered away.
It was nothing like he'd ever seen, and he couldn't decide whether that fascinated or scared him.
"Pretty small, ain't it? Whatever are you two doing down here instead of the house, playing hide-and-seek?" He gruffed while adjusting his position. John looked around; was that a bad thing? It was just the way things always were.
"Anyways- Harriet," the man reached out to something inside his robe's pocket, "A very happy birthday to you. Got you something — probably sat on it at some point, but it should taste alright."
The man pulled a slightly squashed box, which shouldn't, by all means, have fitted inside his tiny robe pockets. Harriet reached out for it before John could stop her, opening it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with 'Happy Birthday Harriet' written on it in green icing. He couldn't remember the last time he had tasted cake.
Now that was scary. Had John's condition manifested someone to oblige his wishes?
John stared at the man, almost forgetting about Harriet altogether. His heart was hammering with all the questions he wanted him to answer. He knew he should say thank you, that's what Uncle would've demanded, but the words got lost on the way to his mouth, and what he said instead was, "Who are you?"
The man chuckled for the first time since he came in, and in a rare show of affection Harriet intertwined John's fingers with hers, both siblings holding out their breaths. (Not without Harriet surreptitiously licking her other hand's fingers while taking some of the cake's icing, of course.)
"True, you couldn't possibly remember me. Gregory Lestrade, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. But you can call me Greg," he finished with a wink.
The man, or rather, Greg, adjusted his position once more and resolved to sit with his elbows on his knees. "Sorry about all that, I mean, the banging n'stuff. We figured it'd be better if we approached you in the Muggle way, and by that, I mean that Dumbledore thought it was the best way, so it probably is, no letters, owls, and all that. But, still, it'd be impossible to talk to you with your uncles interrupting; it's not as if they'd really make a fuss out of it, only this way is much easier, and really, even with half a stick I can still make proper magic. But, well, it'll only last for a little while because it is half a stick. So I'd just like to talk to you before introducing myself to your uncles and heading out at your earliest convenience. Oh, and don't worry, John, I do have your Hogwarts letter! You've probably been waiting for it all summer long, yeah?"
John didn't need to look to Harriet to know that she was gaping. He was as well. "I'm sorry, but we still don't know who you are," He said after a moment's hesitation, seeing the man wouldn't explain anything without being directly questioned. "Have I… Are you here because I… 'summoned' you?"
"As I told you, I'm Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts," The man repeated as if the boy hadn't heard him correctly the first time. "Hm, I guess you could say you summoned me? But it's weird to put it like that. I know you probably expected your letter to come with the mail," he smiled, "but Muggle households usually need… how can I put it… Some sort of proof that Hogwarts' real."
"Whaf's tha name you keep sayin'? Hogwarty?" Harriet said, her mouth full with cake.
"You mean Hogwarts?"
"Yeah," she gulped, "I knew a puppy named Hoggy, but never Hogwarty. That's a weird name for a puppy."
"Well, that's because it isn't-"
"Where is the puppy? Is it in your coat too?"
"What are you even on about?" John snapped. "There is no puppy. We would've heard it already."
"What do you know about puppies? It can be a small puppy!"
"It can't," he reasoned, "because the cake is your birthday wish. You can't have two birthday wishes."
"That's unfair! I never had a birthday wish coming true. I have the right to ten late birthday wishes."
"That's so not how wishes work."
"You're just jealous you've never had a wish coming true."
"You're impossible," John muttered as he turned to Greg, who was staring amusedly at them. "Do you have a puppy or not?"
"I don't," he said hesitantly, "but I have news about Hogwarts. The not puppy-one, I mean."
A beat of silence. Then, "What's a Hogwarts?"
"The magic school! You two must've heard all about it."
"Er, no," said Harriet.
Greg looked as if someone had hit his face with a shoe.
"Sorry," John quickly completed.
"Sorry?" Greg crossed his arms, looking incredulous. "I knew that there was something wrong when Dumbledore said I should get you, but bloody hell! Have you never wondered where your parents learned it all?"
"All what?" asked Harriet.
"All what?!" Greg suddenly stood up. "Now wait just one second!"
The man climbed out of the room, leaving a bewildered John and a cake-stained Harriet behind.
What had just happened?
Non-plussed by everything that happened the last hour, Harriet jumped out of bed. "Do you think he's my guardian angel? That's the only thing that'd grant birthday wishes."
John sighed. "Guardian angels don't exist."
"Whatever makes you sleep at night!" Harriet resumed the cake eating. "What?" She felt John's eyes on her back, "You jealous?"
He had heard somewhere not to eat food from strangers, but somehow Greg didn't look like a stranger. (But he definitely didn't look like an angel either.) Also, you weren't ten every day… And, yeah, the cake did look quite delicious.
Greg returned just as suddenly as he had left, pushing Aunt Bertha and Uncle Albert over the ladder. Aunt Bertha looked grimly over Harriet and John as if they had done something irreparably wrong, which wasn't a strange look on her, and Uncle Albert was as red as a tomato, fuming and shouting gibberish at Greg. John had never seen his Uncles in the basement before. The sight was disconcerting both because they didn't belong there... and there wasn't enough space for everyone. Probably more the latter than the former.
"I'm sorry for being an annoyance," Greg spoke to the Dillard's, not looking particularly sorry for his actions, "But do you mean to tell me that these children — this boy! — know nothing about — about ANYTHING?"
John blinked and pushed Harriet behind him. He knew his Uncle, and also knew how this would go. Harriet shouldn't have been here to see it.
"It's not their fault," he prompted, unable to move his eyes from the ground. "I'm not that intelligent, but I can, you know, do math and stuff."
But Greg simply waved his hand and said, "About our world, I mean. Your world. My world. Your parents' world."
"What world?" Harriet asked again. John wished she wouldn't do so in front of their Uncle.
Greg looked as if he was about to explode.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, and remained like that for a while. After a few deep breaths, he carefully looked over Uncle Albert, who had passed the tomato-red threshold and was now on his way to aubergine-purple. "What the FU- HELL have you done in eleven years?!"
Aunt Bertha gasped, and John's heart almost came out of his throat. No one talked to his Uncle like that. He instinctively tried to cover Harriet's ears, but she didn't let him, smiling carelessly while John lowered his head.
Unexpectedly, Uncle Albert angrily wheezed something that they couldn't understand, while Greg's mumbles sounded very much like 'Jesus Christ I can't believe this', which made Aunt Bertha puff once more.
Greg turned to the siblings once more. "I mean, but you know about your mom and dad, right?" He looked like he didn't want them to answer. "They're famous. You're famous."
He looked pointedly at John.
Harriet let out a nervous giggle. John fringed his brows.
"What? Mom- mom and dad? They- I mean, they were normal," John said.
Greg ran his fingers through his hair, fixing John a bewildered stare. "So, you're trying to tell me… That you don't know who you are?" he said with an edge of desperation.
Uncle Albert suddenly found his voice.
"Stop!" he commanded. "Stop right there! I forbid you to tell them anything!"
A braver man than Albert Dillard would have quailed under the furious look Greg gave him.
"You never told them? Never told them what was in the letter Dumbledore left for them? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dillard! And you've kept it from them all these years?!"
"Kept what from me?" Harriet couldn't hide her eagerness. John was still trying to process Greg's words.
"STOP! I FORBID YOU!" yelled Uncle Albert in panic.
"Oh, bugger off, the both of you," said Greg. "John — you're a wizard." A pause. "Harriet, you most likely are as well."
There was silence inside the room. Only the honks from the cars passing downstreet could be heard.
"— a what?" gasped John, feeling Harriet's hand tightly gripping him, as she turned and spoke at the same time, "I TOLD YOU you have superpowers!"
Greg smiled at Harriet's burst. "A wizard, of course — not a superhero, but close enough," he gave a bright wink at the girl. "And a bloody good one, I'd say, once you've two been trained up a bit. With a mum and dad like yours, what else would you be? Also, I reckon it's about time you read your letter."
Harriet took the yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to Mr. J. Watson, The bed in the basement, Sunset Drive, number 8, Little Whinging. She pulled out the letter, holding it so John could read it as well:
"HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Watson,
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 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Martha Hudson, Deputy Headmistress"
Questions exploded inside John's head like fireworks, and he couldn't decide which to ask first. But finally, he stammered, "What did you first mean, about my parents?"
John woke early the next morning. He ended up sleeping on the house sofa with Harriet, and his arm tingled amidst the tangle of limbs. After Greg figured out that the basement was their room, John had feared that Uncle Albert would finally snap and push Greg out of the house. However, Uncle pulled them to the house so quickly John only just managed to grab his clothes.
The last thing he remembered was the zast of Greg's umbrella, and something about restricting the hatchway forever. That couldn't be true, but if it was, John wouldn't miss their rock-solid bed. And the absence of windows. And anything, really.
It all felt like a dream. He opened his eyes, carefully moving his head to search for the man in the yellow robe, afraid of what he would, or wouldn't, see.
The house was empty.
His heart sank. It had been a good dream, at least; stories of how his parents saved him and Harriet from a You-Know-Who, how John had survived a very powerful spell, and how John was not only famous but also a wizard. A wizard.
John closed his eyes again with a sigh. He hated how his imagination made it all seem so real, and wondered how did he even think magic, spells, and schools of wizardry could be real in the first place.
But he couldn't go back to sleep. A bird was rapping its claw on the window, of all things. John carefully stood up from the sofa trying not to wake Harriet, when he noticed that the bird was an owl, and that the owl… well, the owl held a newspaper in its beak.
Scrambled to his feet, John went straight to the window and jerked it open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of the kitchen's table, where a yellow robe rested. The owl then fluttered in his direction and began to peck at his pockets, making John jerk involuntarily. He did not scream, of course.
Harriet woke up laughing, "You scream like a girl!"
"No, I don't! Ouch!" he said, running away from the little monster. "Maybe a bit of help here?!"
"Nah, I'm fine," Harriet snickered.
Thankfully, not long after, he heard steps coming closer. "Are you awake, then? We need to go, no-"
Greg stopped in front of the room, blinking his eyes as he saw John Watson fighting, and losing, to an owl. He gave the boy a soppy smile. "You need to pay him."
"Pay who?" John said, too concentrated on avoiding being pecked to death to understand Greg's words.
"The bird."
"What?" This time he moved his head to stare at the man, and it granted him a peck on the cheeks.
"He wants payment for delivering the paper. Look, here," Greg reached for his robe on the bed, aiming for the pockets — bunches of keys, teabags, letters, some sort of what John thought looked like handcuffs, and chocolates were thrown (and it all couldn't possibly have fitted inside the pockets, but then, John's a wizard, his parents were wizards, there is a school of wizardry, and the world is a marvel) until, finally, he pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.
"There you go, buddy," Greg said as he gave the bird five little bronze coins. The owl instantly stopped pecking John and flew away.
"Hope you don't mind," He started, looking down to John, who noticed that the man was carrying a cup of coffee and a suitcase. "But I prepared a bag for you — just the essentials for a day trip. Remind me to get some more clothes for you, will ya?"
"But, what about Harriet?"
After drinking the last bit of coffee, throwing the plastic cup on the floor, and grabbing his yellow robe, Greg grinned at Harriet. "Don't worry, I'll come for her next year."
Her anxious expression gave place to delight. She immediately stood up and hugged both Greg and John, maybe grabbing John a bit more forcefully than necessary. "You'll pay for leaving me alone with them." She made a face and John laughed, trying to hide his sweaty hands while kissing her cheek.
He was the only person that had ever taken care of her. His early burst of happiness now gave way to a discomfort he didn't know how to address, or how to make it go away.
"You two, that's it, enough cheekiness for today," Greg said, jokingly pushing them away from each other. "John, the faster, the better, so do whatever eleven-year-old boys do in the morning and let's go."
Before Greg walked out of the door, John remembered why they had to leave in the first place, and his discomfort grew. "Wait, I-"
"Mm?"
"I haven't got any money — and, you know, the Dillard's won't… help me with that," John awkwardly looked at the ground. He wondered if Hogwarts was a posh school. How would he be able to fit in with fancy wizards when even non-magical boys didn't like him?
"Don't worry about that. Do you really think your parents didn't leave you anything?"
"But they are dead-"
"They didn't keep their gold in their bodies, boy! First stop for us is Gringotts, the wizards' bank."
"Wizards have banks?"
"Yes, but just one. Gringotts. You can find many a creatures there, like veelas, dwarfs, goblins…"
Harriet yelped. "Goblins?!"
"Yes, so no one will try to steal them. Gringotts is the safest place in the world for anything you want to keep safe — except maybe Hogwarts-"
"Are there mermaids as well?" Harriet couldn't help but interrupt Greg with bright eyes.
"Not in Gringotts as far as I know, but yeah, they exist-"
"No way!" She made a dramatic pause before continuing, John gaping incredulously at Greg. "How about werewolves? Vampires? Fairies?!"
"Yes, yes, and yes." Greg smiled.
"GAH!" Harriet whimpered, making little excited jumps. "I can't believe you are going without me!" She exclaimed, almost jumping at John, who was silently laughing at her. "You'll have to tell me everything when you get back!"
"Of course I will!" John giggled, unable to hide his excitement.
"Well, kid, when you're ready, come outside. But do try to be quick!" Greg turned his back and left — but not without first glancing upstairs, where his Uncles were still asleep.
Harriet was the first to break the silence. "I know you'll just leave for a day, but… Promise me you'll write," she quietly begged as they both stared, side by side, to where Greg had just been standing. "Pinky promise it," she repeated, bringing her little finger to John's face. I mean, when you leave, like, for real. Every week. You hear me, John Hamish Watson? Every. Single. Week."
She tried to pull off her I'll-murder-you-in-your-sleep look (which was indeed very scary), but her eyes betrayed her. And honestly, John was quite desensitized by that look, although, of course, it did not mean the threat was any less empty.
He rolled his eyes as he locked his pinky finger with hers. Still, he couldn't help the soppy smile that somehow found its way to his mouth. "You heard him. Next year it's your turn."
"Yeah, I'm not deaf, dummy," Harriet squeezed his finger harder. They both gazed at each other from the corner of their eyes. "But it's still a year." With them. With him.
He finally turned to properly stare at her, and did what would probably be the subject of her derides for the next few months: he hugged her.
Like all good things, it lasted for only a few seconds. "Ew, get off me. At least I'll have a whole room to myself!"
The only good-bye between John and his uncles was a stern look. He'd be back soon anyway; either way, he doubted they'd miss him.
The sky was clear, and the street held an emptiness only inner cities had.
"How did you get here?" John asked, looking around for maybe a broom or something similar. Witches used brooms, right? It must be the same for wizards.
"Bus," deadpanned Greg, muttering a 'shoo' to the squirrel who was laddering up his leg.
That was a break of expectations alright.
Greg must've taken notice of John's frowned brows because he continued as if he owed him an explanation."You could say I took it way too literally when Dumbledore said I should do it in the Muggle way. It wasn't that hard, I mean, my mother's a muggle-born, and it's almost like taking the Knight Bus but simpler. Besides, going via the Floo always leaves me with a headache and, y'know, I don't think travelling with an eleven-year-old hundreds of feet up in the air is a sound idea."
John fleetingly wondered what the Knight Bus and the Floo were, but Greg seemed so concentrated on his talk that he decided to ask later. Adding more confusing terms to his vocabulary was something he'd have to get used to. "I think it was that way; yes, that way. It'll be what, one hour to London?"
John had no idea. He'd never been to London before. Still, he made some acknowledgement with his head and started to walk in the direction Greg was pointing at, a little disappointed he wouldn't get to see more magic for now. While they walked, a handful of dogs barked, and cats approached and meowed. John had never seen this many animals in the neighbourhood before.
"What were you saying about Gringotts?" John asked, glancing at the cats following them.
"I got some stuff to do there for the old man. As I said; Gringotts is the safest place out there. Spells, enchantments, only mad people would attempt to rob anything there," said Greg, unfolding a map of Surrey as he spoke, apparently ignoring that the whole animal community of Sunset Drive was escorting them. "They say there are dragons guarding the high-security vaults," John gasped, "And then you'd have to find your way — Gringotts is hundreds of miles under London, see. Deep under the Underground. You'd die of hunger trying to get out, even if you did manage to get your hands on something."
John and Greg arrived at the bus stop. They sat, John thinking about real-life dragons while watching the squirrels and the birds nearby — one of them sitting on Greg's shoulder like a pirate's parrot — while Greg read his newspaper undisturbed, only sometimes shooing the animals like it was a recurring action. John had learned from Uncle Albert that people liked to be left alone while they read the news, but it was very difficult to be silent at that moment. He'd never had so many questions in his life. Before John could buckle up his nerves, however, a nearby dog, which honestly looked more like a wolf and less like a dog, yapped at his feet, startling him. He followed Greg's example and shooed away the animals coming near.
"And yet again, the Holmes's are front-page news. Unsurprising," Greg mumbled to himself, turning the page.
"What happened?" John asked before he could stop himself.
Startled, Greg turned to look at him, a hint of something else in his eyes. "Nothing for you to worry about." John returned his look to the ground — he shouldn't have said anything. Greg sighed, "It's just, not children stuff, y'know? But look here," He pointed to an article for John to see. The headline read "QUEEN'S CORGI TURNS INTO HAMSTER". John smiled in disbelief as he read the paper.
The muggles were left scratching their heads today as their Queen's corgi changed into a hamster. Luckily enough for us, they just thought that the corgi had been stolen and a hamster put in its place as a cruel joke. There is now a full-scale hunt on for the real corgi which of course will not be found. The Ministry of Magic is looking into this matter. The Improper Use of Magic Office has a few suspects they are questioning about the incident. A motive for the attack is not known but further attacks on public Muggle figures would not help us one bit. The International Federation of Warlocks is also meeting to discuss the incident. The Daily Prophet will keep you up to date on further news on that story tomorrow.
"Wait, there's a Ministry of Magic?"
"'Course there is," said Greg, his voice muffled because of a sandwich. Apparently, everything fitted inside that man's pocket. "They wanted Dumbledore for Minister, but he'd never leave Hogwarts, so old Culverton Smith got the job. People love 'im, but he's a bungler if ever there was one. So he pests Dumbledore with owls every morning, asking for advice."
"But what does a Ministry of Magic do?"
"Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there are witches and wizards up and down the country."
"Why?"
"Why? Blimey, John, everyone'd be wanting magic solutions to their problems. We're best left alone."
At that moment their bus arrived at the stop. Passengers openly stared at Greg as they walked to their sits, and John couldn't blame them. Not only was Greg wearing a canary yellow robe, but also some of the animals on the street followed them inside the bus, clinging to Greg's suitcase and clothing.
"See that, John?" He placed his hand where cold air came out of small air-conditionings. "Things these Muggles dream up, eh?"
"Greg," John whispered, reminded of their conversation from earlier as the bus started moving, "did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?"
"Well, so they say," Greg mumbled back with a faint look. "They scare the hell out of me."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I mean, just imagine having a dog, but bigger, low-tempered, which expel fire through the nostrils. I'd die on the first day," John thought Greg had been joking on the last part, but when he looked up to the man, he seemed slightly sick.
The rest of the trip passed through without any complaints from John, getting most of his questions discreetly answered until they reached a pleasant silence.
When they finally arrived in the city, it was as if he had walked into a different dimension. London was… Overwhelming, but in a good way. If it weren't for Greg quickly pulling him whenever they had to take a turn, John'd certainly get lost. All the different smells, buildings, people, made his heart drum in an excited beating.
Unfortunately, Greg soon enough pulled him into an Underground station. But perhaps it was for the best since people had started staring weirdly at them.
However, people stared more than ever on the tube. Greg took up two seats with his suitcase and squirrels, expertly unfolding a map of London.
"Still got your letter, John?" he asked between mutters of streets names and numbers. John took the parchment envelope out of his pocket.
"Good," said Greg. "There's a list there of everything you need."
John unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn't noticed the night before, and read it through and through, with special remarks to the parts where the letter required for him to buy a cauldron, a pointed hat (just like the ones from the movies); and where it recommended that John get an owl (he wasn't really excited about that) and not buy a broomstick. So wizards did use broomsticks for flying?
He didn't doubt that they could find all items in a city like this, but some requirements were… oddly specific. "Where can we even start looking for all this?" John wondered aloud.
"If you know where to go," Greg glanced mischievously at the boy.
"This is it," Greg came to a halt, "the Leaky Cauldron. It's a famous place."
It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Greg hadn't pointed it out, John wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big bookshop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, John had the most peculiar feeling that only he and Greg could see it. Before he could mention this, Greg had steered him inside.
For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. However, the low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Greg; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, "The usual, Lestrade?"
"Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," said Greg, clapping his hand on John's shoulder.
"Good Lord," said the bartender, peering at John, "Is this- can this be-?"
The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.
"Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "John Watson... what an honor."
It was the weirdest feeling ever, having everybody looking at you not for being out of place, neither for doing something terribly wrong, but for… saving the world.
As a baby.
All the customers, wizards and witches alike, stood up to shake his hand and thank him for something he did as a baby. And didn't even remember doing. John's smile became slightly more forced.
Saving the world as an infant was way more disappointing than those people made it seem. Although the sudden attention was something he never had, he had never asked for it either.
A pale young man made his way forward; or rather, burst his way forward. He smelt a worrying lot like what Uncle Albert drank every Friday night.
"Professor Woodley!" said Greg. "John, Professor Woodley will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."
"Watson," Professor Woodley slurred, trying to grasp John's hand but failing, mostly because his own hands were trembling, "Slippery hands, eh? Can't tell you how— How pleased," the man made a pause and gulped, "I am to meet you."
"What do you teach, Professor Woodley?" John asked, hoping the man would be brief. He knew enough about the Professor's state, enough so that he should be walking away, as far as possible.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts, the subject of the heroes!" Professor Woodley said as he boldly clapped John's shoulder, strong enough that John almost jumped in a startle. "Every single-" He hiccuped, "-Important wizard was a proficient on the art of defending oneself against the voices, no, forces of evil," He made yet another pause, this time grasping John's other shoulder. John's nose wrinkled with the smell of alcohol. "Except for you, Mr. Watson. Now, imagine: with my training, you will be unstoppable."
John didn't understand what the man was implying. He just wanted to buy his pointed hat and cauldron (pewter, standard size 2).
"Okay, that's enough. Back off," Greg made his way to Woodley's side, interrupting his speech. John looked at him gratefully.
"Oh, I'd be careful with what you say to me, Keeper of the Keys," Professor Woodley garbled.
John already didn't like him.
"I'm sorry, but do you happen to respond directly to Dumbledore?" The man looked questioningly at Greg. "Yeah, I thought so. Let's go, John, lots of stuff to do." He smirked while making John's way at the crowd.
"Told you, didn't I? Told you are famous. Even Professor Woodley has approached you — not the best person, I know, but he usually avoids crowds. I can't even remember the last time I've seen him."
"Is he always that... way?"
"Yeah, kind of. But the man's got a brilliant mind, after all, Dumbledore himself chose him. He was fine when he studied in Ireland about some sort of dark creature, but then he took a year off to get some firsthand experience... They say he met said creature in the Black Forest and never been the same since. Drinks himself to oblivion every day — the hell's my stick?"
John feigned understanding. What could possibly make a man start acting like that? Greg, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.
"Three up... two across," he muttered. "Right, stand back, John."
He tapped the wall three times with the point of his stick, while John carefully straightened his fringe to cover his lightning scar.
The brick he had touched quivered and wriggled until, in the middle, a small hole appeared — but it grew wider and wider, and a second later they were facing an archway, large enough for both of them to pass together, which showed a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.
"Welcome," said Greg, "to Diagon Alley."
He grinned at John's amazement. They stepped through the archway (as Greg forcibly put away three cats from his leg and an owl from his head). John glanced over his shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into a solid wall.
The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop.
It took them at least twenty minutes to enter the Gringotts bank, mostly because they had a no-animal inside policy and that was a major issue for Greg Lestrade. John wondered if he should've asked Greg why the animals were oddly attracted to him, but it felt disrespectful to do so.
When they were ready, a pair of dwarfs bowed them through the silver doors of the bank, and suddenly they were in a vast marble hall, fancier and posher than anything John had ever seen in his entire life. About a hundred more magical creatures were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. Greg and John made for the stand.
"Hello," Greg approached a normal-looking woman, although a very beautiful one. "We've come to take some money out of the conjoined safe of Mr. John Watson and Miss Harriet Watson," Greg introduced his surname in a proud tone.
"You have his key, Sir?" The woman didn't even glance in their direction, still inspecting what looked like piles of small coins.
"Got it here somewhere," Greg said. He emptied his limitless pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of dog, cat and bird food over the woman's book of numbers — the food they'd used to lure the animals away from them. The woman wrinkled her nose, and John tried not to burst into laughter.
"Got it," said Greg at last, holding up a tiny golden key.
She looked at it carefully.
"That seems to be in order."
"Also, I've got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore. It's about the You-Know-What in vault two hundred and forty-seven." There seemed to have a lot of You-Know-Who's and You-Know-What's in this world, and John momentarily wondered how come would he learn to understand these people's speaking.
The woman read the letter carefully.
"Very well," she said, handing it back to Greg, "I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!"
Griphook was a goblin, the first one John saw. Once Greg had crammed all the animal food back into his pockets, they followed Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall.
"What's the You-Know-What in vault two hundred and forty-seven?" John asked.
"Can't tell you that," said Greg mysteriously. "Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore trusted me — sorry, kid."
Griphook held the door open for them. John, who had expected more marble, was pleasantly surprised. Instead, they were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches, like one of John's storybooks. It sloped steeply downward, and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled, and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in and were off.
At first, they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. John wondered if that's how Disneyland attractions feel like.
John's eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he forced them wide open, figuring that's as close to a roller coaster he'll ever get. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late — they plunged even deeper.
"Do you keep dragons over here?" John called to Griphook over the cart's noise, never mind that goblins were mysterious and secretive and apparently also hated being questioned by young wizards.
The cart took a sick downside turn, and John couldn't help but think that it was all because of his loud mouth. He clutched his hand on Greg's arm as the man kept shouting.
He tried giving Greg the benefit of the doubt about whether the screams were from terror or excitement, but as soon as the cart stopped, Greg got out and took a deep breath. "Oh wow," he managed to say, "It's just — my trips to Gringotts were never this — thrilling," he tried to smile, but his knees trembled, and he fell on his buttocks.
John tried not to laugh.
"Oi, I see you over there," Greg couldn't hold off a few breathless chuckles either. "I don't think I'll be able to stand up for now, so you two keep going, I'll just-"
Before Greg could complete, John reached out, pulling him off the ground (as much as a scrawny eleven-year-old could). Greg beamed, "Thanks, kid. Now watch that!" He pointed John in the goblin's direction.
Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, John gasped. Inside were mountains of gold, silver, and bronze coins.
"All yours, and your sister's," Greg smiled.
All John's... it was incredible. And a bit daunting, if he was honest. Besides the fact that the Dillard's could never know about this, or they'd have it from him faster than blinking, John couldn't even begin to grasp what to do with such an amount of money.
Greg helped him pile some of it into a bag.
"The gold ones are Galleons," he explained. "Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, you'll get it quick enough. Right, that should be enough for a couple of terms; you can keep the rest." He turned to Griphook. "Vault two hundred and forty-seven now, please, and can we go a bit more... safe-wise?"
Griphook just stared at Greg.
Was it John's impression or the cart was actually going faster?
As they went deeper and deeper, and darkness filled their vision, John tried to lean over the side to see what was down at the dark bottom; hopefully a dragon. Greg, who by now looked half-dead, almost screamed again when his bleary eyes glanced at the boy, quickly pulling him back by the scruff of his neck.
Vault two hundred and forty-seven, however, had no keyhole.
"Stand back," said Griphook, the first and only time he had addressed the duo. He stroked the door gently with one of his long fingers, and it simply melted away. "If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there," said Griphook.
"How often do you check to see if anyone's inside?" John asked.
"About once every ten years," Griphook answered with a rather nasty grin.
Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault. John leaned forward curiously, expecting to see jewels at the very least (and a pet dragon at the very best?) — but at first, he thought it was empty. Then he noticed a small package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor, even smaller than the packed lunch Aunt Bertha sometimes made for him. Greg picked it up and tucked it deep inside his robe pocket. John longed to know what it was but knew Greg wouldn't answer him anyway.
"Come on, back in this very exciting ride," said Greg, green-faced.
One wild cart ride later, they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. John didn't know where to run first now that he had a bag full of money; maybe get his cat (because John was never touching an owl again) or a broomstick (because he needed to try flying in one). He didn't have to know how much Galleons were worth in pounds to see that he was holding more money than he'd had in his whole life.
Was it wrong to use his dead parents' money? But, they were gone, and the money had been sitting inside an underground vault untouched for eleven years. Maybe John could send to Harry what would be left of it after his shopping spree.
"Well, we might as well get your uniform," said Greg, nodding towards Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Listen, John, would you mind if I slipped off for a water with sugar? I'm usually okay with Gringotts' carts, but that one was... special." He did still look a bit sick, so John sheepishly entered Madam Malkin's shop by himself.
"Hogwarts, dear?" The witch he figured was Madam Malkin said when John started to speak. "Got the lot here — another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."
In the back of the shop, a pale boy was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood John on a stool next to him, slipping a long dress over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.
The boy looked at him and sighed, looking unbelievably bored considering they were in a place where scissors and fabrics levitated. John had to make an effort not to gape at everything. The other boy's dark curly hair was so wild sometimes the other witch had to move it out of the way, and the quick yet unsettling gaze he'd landed on John was enough for him to see clear blue eyes.
"Gryffindor or Hufflepuff?" The boy spoke out of nowhere, now looking away to something on his hands.
"I'm sorry?" John had never heard those names before in his entire life.
"Which will it be? Gryffindor or Hufflepuff?"
"I- I don't know what you are talking about."
"Mudblood, then." The boy said, followed with a frown.
John felt his interior go cold. He knew little, but knew enough to understand that something named 'mud-blood' certainly wasn't a praise. "Excuse me?"
They were interrupted by an alarmed older woman who had just entered the shop. "Girls, quick, come outside! Fletcher's hexed Dawlish, and now there's a major fuss and- oh dear Merlin, do come and watch this!"
Madam Malkin and the other witch looked at each other. "I'm sorry, boys, but the shop is closed for now! Come by again in fifteen—" she looked at the older woman, who shook her head, "—thirty minutes, will you?" She said rather lamely.
Immediately, the boy took out the black robes with precision and walked away from the footstool.
"How do you feel about a little danger?"
John looked round at the shopkeepers, but they're on their way out the door. He glances at the otherwise empty shop and finally realised that the boy is talking to him.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Now is the best moment for anyone to go by the Diagon Alley unnoticed. Everyone has a single mindset instead of looking at the whole — this is what most people do even without a distraction, but then, most people are stupid."
He looked around the shop until finally glancing at John, as if in an afterthought. "Sometimes I plan such diversions for my own personal gain. Would that bother you? Potential classmates should know the worst about each other." John didn't know any better, yet he'd guess that the hideous smile directed at him was utterly false.
John looked at him blankly for a moment. "Who said anything about us being classmates?"
"I did. The way Malkin attentively put the black robes on you — she does have a fondness for Hogwarts students. Also, only Hogwarts has a black robe as a uniform. Wasn't a difficult leap."
"What did you say, about Huffle-something?"
But the boy wasn't really listening. He was staring at something in his pocket, and scowling at what he'd just seen. "My arch-enemy is approaching. We gotta dash, now." The boy pushed John to what seemed to be a back door until John stopped mid-track.
"Do people have arch-enemies?"
"I do."
That's disconcerting. "Aren't you, like, eleven?"
"Great deduction, John. Now, tag along," He didn't hold the sarcasm on his voice, and didn't bother to see if John was following him to the back alley.
His tone was anything but inviting. And John hated being ordered to do something, especially by a complete stranger. But his scar was hidden and this boy knew his name even so. How come?
"What are you doing?!" He asked as he tried to follow the boy's quick steps.
"What am I doing?"
"We've just met, and now we'll run away from your arch-enemy, and do, I don't know, a secret investigation in the middle of the Diagon Alley?"
"Problem?"
The last twenty-four hours had been a dazzle of new informations and settings, but that was a bit too much for John. He smiled in disbelief. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't even know your name."
"Well, I know your name. I also know you are a muggle-born, and that your family was either extremely poor or your parents were just the biggest penny-pinchers. You hold your stance as if you aren't sure how people will look or react by looking at you — again, you probably never interacted much, or at all, with the wizarding community. You have just arrived from Gringotts with a relatively big amount of money, and you also have a younger sister, Harriet, with whom you are more protective than necessary. The oldest-brother complex, I imagine," He gave John a wry smile, as if he'd just told a personal joke. "You are a Hufflepuff or a Gryffindor, maybe a Ravenclaw if pressed, but not a Slytherin by a very long shot. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"
John halted. He tried not to gape, but didn't find much success. "How do you know?"
The other boy also slowed down, dully fiddling with his shirt's sleeve. "I can read your family status in your bag and your clothes, and your relationship with your sister in your face."
"But how?"
The boy smiled smugly and turned away. John followed. "What about my name? How did you-?"
"Sherlock!" A voice suddenly interrupted them.
They both turned to the front door, where a tall, ginger and slightly overweight man was standing, steadily approaching them.
"Wait, your name is Sherlock?" What a weird name.
John barely had time to look over when Sherlock's hand grabbed his arm. "Irrelevant. Run!"
And they ran.
"Wait, are you sure this is safe?" John turned to Sherlock while the other boy held in his hand what seemed to be a ball. A very smelly ball.
"No," Sherlock answered with a smirk, "But that's what makes it interesting, isn't it?"
They were standing on the rooftop of some sort of food shop — Sherlock had said something about ice cream — and observing the commotion on the other side of the Alley.
"Also, if we don't do it, Fletcher won't be able to escape, and if he doesn't, I'll lose my source, and-"
John sat and turned to gaze at the sky, happily sighing. He didn't understand half of Sherlock's words, but it was nice to have someone to talk to. "It's so beautiful up here, don't you think?"
Sherlock looked faintly surprised at John's statement. "I don't- I never thought about it."
"Sometimes I have nothing to do, so I just spend my whole day looking at the sky."
Sherlock hesitated. "When I have nothing to do, I create potions," John raised his brows. "I have read the brewing books Hogwarts' told us to, and most of them are useless. So since we'll probably never learn anything useful at school, and Mummy won't buy me the advanced books, I figured I should make them myself. The advanced books, I mean."
"But, you're eleven years old!"
"And?"
"And... I don't know, I just can't imagine anyone doing a potion," John shrugged. "Seems hard."
"It is," he acknowledged, "Just because I want to make the advanced books doesn't mean I succeeded," Sherlock said that as if it was a personal resentment of his.
"I can't believe potions are actually a thing," John felt Sherlock sitting by his side, the poop bomb — or whatever it was — momentarily forgotten. "Like, the potions, and brooms, and pointy hats. That's the first three things anyon- any Muggle would think about when thinking of witches. And they are all real!"
"Wizards and Muggles have a long history together. Longer than history itself, I'd imagine. So harmless gossips about our clothes and transports were bound to happen at some point," Sherlock said. "But everything else, the truly important things, we've managed to keep to ourselves."
"Why, though? How could sharing be a bad thing? I hope my sister is a wizard too, but if she isn't, why can't she enjoy this place? We're not even doing magic. Actually, I don't think I've done any magic since I arrived."
John saw Sherlock frowning from the corner of his eye. "But your sister can come here. Anyone from a magical family can come."
"That makes it even more confusing. If my sister ends up magicless, how can she be different from any common Muggle?"
"Hm," Sherlock put a hand to his mouth in deep thought. "I… can't say I've thought about it. Not like this."
John grinned. "Wait. I know about something you don't? Is that even possible?"
"Well, I am only eleven years old," Sherlock rolled eyes, throwing John's words back at him. "Just wait until I'm twelve."
"You'll be unstoppable!" John cheered him up, clear genuinity in his voice.
"And I suppose you won't let me leave you behind in my quest for knowledge. I'll just have to show you how to make a potion then."
Weirdly enough, Sherlock seemed startled by what he had just said. "That'd be awesome! But I have to warn you, though, I don't know anything about potions. I mean, I don't even know how a cauldron looks like — Should've been buying those now, actually."
"Let's go, then," Sherlock made a movement to stand up.
"Let's go where?"
"To the shop to buy your cauldron, obviously."
"But— Aren't we doing it? The smelly bomb? By the way, I still don't understand. Why the smelly bomb?"
"It's a Dumgbomb, John, not a smelly bomb. And, we can do it later. I know Potage's never closes with something as silly as a turmoil, and you've just said you don't know anything about potions," Sherlock's gaze turned to the floor, frowning. "I can be of help, which you certainly must've noticed, but we don't need to if you don't want, I mean, we can-"
Before he could continue, John stood up, offering his hand.
It hadn't been an easy job to make their way through the hazard of wizards and witches gaping, but at least the shop, as Sherlock had said, was open. John remembered seeing it as soon as he entered the Alley, mostly because of its incredibly huge sign, which read:
Cauldrons - All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver - Self-Stirring - Collapsible
Sherlock opened the door the same way someone does when they're arriving home. John was gobsmacked, not without reason. There were pacing, biting cauldrons, and the head of the shop, a strange-looking, almost caricature witch, Madam Potage, shared a particular tenderness with Sherlock.
John laid back on the end of the alleyway, holding his brand new cauldron with his left hand, breathless from both running and giggling. "I can't believe we've just released a- a stink bomb-"
"For Merlin's beard, it was a Dumgbomb, not a stink bomb, John," Sherlock interrupted between his chuckles.
"- Whatever it was, in the middle of- of Wizarding London!" John finished with another laugh. "Tell me why we did that again, I think I am so traumatised I had to forget it."
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he sat on the floor, John accompanying him. "I'm training to enhance my senses of smell and hearing to become either a potions master or the best detective in the world, whatever comes first. It's turning out to be a horribly inane task since everyone around here is stupid and boring," Sherlock seemed eager to have an audience to his talking, "Everyone's an oaf, so don't feel offended."
Surprisingly, John didn't — he kept quiet and waited for Sherlock to continue. "What makes potion-making interesting is that you need to be absolutely sure of what you want to achieve, as well as to what you are doing to accomplish it. A single, small mistake could have unprecedented consequences," Sherlock glanced at John with a knowing smile. "And the thing about the wizarding world is that the rate of unsolved crimes is catastrophically high. Aurors simply don't care because they are expecting to track the outlaws later with their magic monitors. There's no deduction. Actually, deduction is quite similar to brewing something; you need to observe to do anything."
Again, John didn't understand half of what he said, and grinned nonetheless. At first sight he wouldn't take Sherlock for a very talkative person, but he was glad he was. "Why the bomb, though?" John asked, avoiding questioning about the Auror stuff. It was nice to pretend he'd known about magic all along.
Probably not to Sherlock, though, who rolled his eyes again.
"Aurors are dumb people who think they stand a chance against much more powerful wizards. Sometimes they do, but most times they don't, which grants them a full two page cover on the Daily Prophet on how the 'heroes of the generation bravely sacrificed for us', meaning they died in such an awful way no-one can stand to point out their mistakes," John laughed awkwardly. "Last summer I even sent an anonymous tip and it actually solved a murder. That's how out of depth they are."
"So… you... You work for wizards who solve crimes and arrest bad people?"
"I only sent one anonymous tip. It's not that big of a deal."
"Of course it is! That's, like, really awesome! "
Sherlock's ears flushed. "That's not what people usually say."
"What do they usually say?"
"Piss off."
For the first time, silence stretched between them. John didn't mind being quiet, but it felt unusual for Sherlock to just quietly stare at the ground, fiddling with whatever was in his pocket; even if they only knew each other for only a few hours.
"What about me, then? How did you know about my sister and my Uncles?"
Sherlock turned, so sudden John almost jumped to his feet. "Was I wrong?!"
"I guess? But it's a small detail, parents and uncles, you couldn't have known-"
"Of course I could have known!" Sherlock pointed with finality. "I just need more training," he grunted out. "There is always something."
"Okay, then. Train with me. How did you discover the things from earlier?"
"I didn't discover, I deduced," Sherlock said, the spark slowly returning to his eyes.
"When I first saw you, I asked, Gryffindor or Hufflepuff? You seemed surprised. A muggle-born, then.
"You aren't used to the magic world, yet you entered a clothing store of said world only by yourself, even if you were awkward about it. Your clothes and the way you hold yourself says Muggle, but as soon as you entered the shop your eyes instantly focused on the manager, not to the floating aprons or the walking scissors, so you are either used to seeing this, which is highly unlikely, or you are just someone who had been taught to seek approval. Then there are your clothes: anyone with a basic sense of fashion knows this is at least second-handed, but then, you had just arrived with a big amount of money judging by the bag you are holding; it is clear that the content inside are mostly Galleons, just look at the way the fabric shifts and how it apparently weights. You hold it with cautiousness; you either are still surprised by having such money and seeks reassurance by constantly touching it, unconsciously of course, or can't bear to lose it, or both. Although your focus was instantly on the person attending you, clearly you still felt uneasy — probably never been somewhere this fancy, then; meaning that whoever created you was a major penny-pincher. Obvious! Now, your shoes. Cheap, old and used, but, most importantly, it has this scribbling on its side, which says 'Harriet' — a girl's name. From the way it was written, I'm sure that the author is a child, perhaps nine or ten years old now; younger than you, or she would've been here. You act shyly when you are in the midst of a large crowd; probably never interacted too much with anyone, then — so Harriet can't be a close friend, which leaves her as your sister. Next bit is easy — just look at yourself. Only at the mention of your sister your eyes grow soppy; so, the older brother complex. Back at the store, it was a bit of an overlap to say you were overprotective, but then, it was obvious you are an older brother and most, if not all of them, are overprotective. You don't need to be a detective to know that."
Sherlock paused, took a deep breath, and continued. Loyalty, bravery, chivalry, and curiosity. All Gryffindor and Hufflepuff traits, although a few of them could be related to Ravenclaw, but not in any way you would fit in Slytherin."
John was too dumbfounded to say anything.
"Oh, and last but not least…" Sherlock waited a few seconds, appealing to a few dramatics. "You seem to blend inside crowded spaces and try not to attract any attention to yourself, so I simply said the most traditional British name from the last two centuries: John."
John shook his head, incredulous. "No way! You couldn't have known only from this. What if my name wasn't John?"
"Then you'd think I was referring to you as 'John Doe'."
"That's… Wow. You really are a genius," he waited until Sherlock's smug smile made its appearance, "I guess even geniuses make mistakes though, because you did make another one. But do not fret, you still can have your 'genius', title," he winked playfully.
"Idiot," said Sherlock, actually smiling and not looking crestfallen at his slight mistake. "What did I get wrong, then, your supreme detective highness?"
"Well, thank you for asking, dear peasant-" Sherlock made a noise, "-But I'm actually not a Muggle-born. My dad was a wizard, and my mom was a Muggle-born." Sherlock looked at him questioningly, but before he could say anything, John answered, "They are dead, by the way. No hard feelings, really, I barely knew them myself. Grew up with my Uncles only, and they are the most unmagical people I've ever known — not that I know a lot about magic myself, I've actually learned all about it only yesterday, but they just hate it."
"Makes sense," Sherlock started. "Not that your parent's death makes sense- I mean- It's just, it fits your personality- Not that your face shouts 'my parents are dead' but-" He stammered, and John laughed. Especially because his forehead did scream 'my parents are dead'.
"Hey, no worries. I never think about this, not really." John stared at the wall — was he a bad son for not usually thinking about his deceased parents?
"No, you are not," Sherlock answered.
"You can read anyone's mind or am I that much of an open book?"
"Both." The boys giggled.
"What about you? Any family at all?"
"I-"
"JOHN WATSON!" A not so strange voice boomed through the narrow, empty alleyway. John looked over at its owner.
It was Greg.
John had wholly forgotten about Greg.
"I have been searching for you for- wait a second," the man with the canary yellow robe supported himself on the brick wall, recovering his breath, "For goddamn three hours! What the hell were you thinking, disappearing like that?!"
"Your surname is Watson?!" Sherlock said almost simultaneously, pushing his hand over John's sand hair only to reveal a lightning scar.
"Yeah, I mean-" John turned to Greg, "Sorry about that! It's just, me and my friend Sherlock-"
John pointed to Sherlock, or at least where Sherlock should be. The alleyway was empty.
He frowned and moved to the corner, where there was a tapered access to behind the stores. Either Sherlock was extraordinarily fast, or he had vanished from thin air. "Sherlock, wait!" John called uselessly.
Greg stared at him unabashedly, his arms crossed.
"Do you even realise how dangerous it was for you to run away from me?! Suddenly all the-" He was interrupted by a meow. Only this time Greg leaned with one knee and actually picked the cat up, carefully stroking its fur. "-The whole Diagon Alley was a mess, the shops were closed, at least three Aurors were screaming at Fletcher, the arse, but then all of a sudden there was a terrible smell in the air, which only made things worse, and…"
He took a deep breath and walked in John's direction, placing himself where Sherlock had been sitting. "You do know that there are bad people out there, yeah? I told you about You-Know-Who; he killed many people. Your parents. Mercilessly. Tried to kill you too, didn't work out so well," Greg shot John a sad smile, "And no-one has ever survived such a spell in all history, except for you. People grew up hearing all about you, how you defeated the most powerful dark wizard, but, y'know, he wasn't the only one. You have to know that, John: there are people out there who want you as dead as Hamish and Rose, and I am the one who's supposed to take care of you, at least until you're in Hogwarts or with your Uncles. So, please, don't bloody leave my eyesight, alright?" He finished as he gripped John's shoulder.
The boy stared at the ground self-consciously.
"Hey, kid, don't look like that. You couldn't have known. How about we go buy some ice cream, eh?"
John was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Greg had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).
"What's up? And what is it you are holding?" said Greg, the cat still in his arms.
"Nothing," John lied. "I mean, I'm okay; this is the cauldron I bought with... someone I met." Greg made a look, but kept quiet nonetheless.
They stopped to buy parchment and quills. John cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, he said, "Greg, what's a Hufflepuff?"
"Blimey, John, I keep forgetting how little you know… not knowing about the Houses!"
"Sherlock said I'm a Hufflepuff or a Gryffindor," said John. He told Greg about the clever boy in Madam Malkin's, and their adventure on Diagon Alley, which granted him a startled laugh and a disbelieving look on Greg. "I can't believe you boys were the ones behind all that!"
"Me neither," John agreed with a smile, "He said he needed to do it for an experiment of sorts. I actually don't know why, didn't ask him." John remembered the way Sherlock had suddenly disappeared and looked at the ground.
"He's intelligent, very very intelligent. He even discovered- deduced I have a little sister and that my Uncles are penny-pinchers!" He watched Greg, expecting him to be as amazed as John was. "Then he said he wanted to be a detective, and told me all about Aurors."
"That's new," commented Greg, a hint of evasiveness in his voice. "Usually kids like you want to be, I dunno, a healer or the Minister for Magic. I myself wanted to be an Auror, but life and stuff got in the way," Greg looked pensive as he continued stroking the cat's fur.
"So what are the Houses?"
"They are the school houses; Hogwarts' houses. There are four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a load of duffers, but—"
"I bet I'm in Hufflepuff, then," said John gloomily, the reminiscent of Sherlock's disappearance echoing in his mind.
"Oi! Let me finish. When I went to Hogwarts, not that while ago, I actually was in Hufflepuff," Greg spoke proudly, "It was fun because on my first day everyone told me it was the dimwit's house, but by the end of the year we'd won the House Cup. God, Hawkings face when he saw that we'd won, that is something I won't forget." He looked at the horizon with thoughtfulness.
"And anyone's better off in Hufflepuff than Slytherin," Greg muttered, slowly decreasing his voice tone. "There's not a single dark witch or wizard who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one."
"Vol-, sorry- You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?"
"Yeah, many decades ago."
They bought John's school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling. It had books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Bennie, who had never read anything, would have been wild to get his hands on some of these.
However, it was the Book of Potions (This potion book will teach you the composition of particularly potent and complex potions, said the advert) that caught John's attention. It was three Galleons — didn't seem much, but then, John didn't have any sense of Wizard money. Would it be too awkward to buy this book after Sherlock ran away? He could offer it as a peace-treaty, even though he had no clue what had made the boy go away so suddenly.
"What's up?" Greg started, still keeping the cat in his arms. John wondered if his arms didn't feel tired.
"It's just… Remember that boy who was with me in the Alleyway? He's my friend, I guess. But you've seen it, he suddenly disappeared, but he really liked potions, so I thought maybe I could get him this book and..."
"Look, kid, I'm not saying that's not a good idea, but I don't really think this book would be of much use for an eleven year old," said Greg. "And also, I get it, you are a very loyal person, but you've just met him. How about you try to talk to him once you're at Hogwarts?"
John bought it anyway.
Then they visited the Apothecary (which meant that Greg had to finally release the cat). It was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotten cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. He couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock actually used all this stuff to make his potions. It was… Kinda off-putting, to be honest. John looked over at some slimy green-something (later he discovered it was frog sweat), and imagined someone drinking it. His stomach turned.
Outside the Apothecary, Greg checked John's list again.
"Just your wand left- Oh, and we have to get you a pet!" Greg was oddly excited for someone who has spent the whole day surrounded by animals. "My treat," he winked.
John felt himself go red.
"You don't have to-"
"I know I don't have to. But now that I'm owing a dog to your sister," he smiled, "it's only fair that you get an animal as well. Not a toad, toads went out of fashion years ago, you'd be laughed at, and I don't think you'd particularly want an owl, not after today," he couldn't help but giggle while John rolled his eyes, "Tell you what, I'll get you a cat. They are not useful at all, but they are little cute balls. You'll like it."
On their way to the Magical Menagerie (that's what Greg said the shop's name was at least), the cat from before found them and started purring at Greg's feet. "Hey, buddy," Greg started, and promptly stood on his knee in order to pet the animal, "Every time I come here, this cat finds me. I wish I could take him to Hogwarts with me, but," Greg shrugged, "you've seen it, they follow me everywhere. I wouldn't be able to keep another one."
John had an idea. "I can keep it."
"Really? But, you don't want me to get you a kitten?"
"I honestly don't care," John meant it, "This one is pretty nice, and it has orange hair. Also, you wouldn't need to spend your money on me."
Greg looked at John suspiciously. "You aren't telling me that only because you don't want me to buy something for you, are you?"
"Absolutely not." John smirked.
Not much later John was walking with a cat on his arms, while Greg held his shopping, and his suitcase (which honestly didn't look like a suitcase at all, since it was almost all covered with small animals), until they stopped in front of a narrow, shabby shop. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
"Just Ollivanders left now. Gotta get your wand, after all."
A magic wand... this was what John had been really looking forward to.
A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Greg sat on to wait. John felt as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence seemed to tingle with some secret magic.
"Good afternoon," said a raspy voice. John jumped. Greg must have jumped, too, because there was a crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair.
An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.
"Hello," said John awkwardly.
"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon, John Watson."
It wasn't a question.
"Curious... curious…"
"Sorry," said John, "but what's curious?"
Mr. Ollivander fixed John with his pale stare.
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Watson. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother gave you that scar."
John swallowed.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as John and Greg made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, and back to the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. John didn't speak at all as they walked down the road; he didn't even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, and with a ginger cat on John's lap. Up another escalator, out into London's streets, the sudden change from crowds with wizards in colorful robes to blue and white-collar workers made John's mind spin.
"Got time for a bite before your bus leaves," Greg proposed.
He bought John a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. John kept looking around. Everything looked so strange now.
"You alright, kid? You're unusually quiet," said Greg.
John wasn't sure he could explain. He'd just had the best day of his life, and yet.
"Everyone thinks I'm special," he said at last. "All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Woodley, Mr. Ollivander..." John refrained himself from saying 'Sherlock' — he may be slow but it didn't take much to realise that the boy had disappeared after he'd seen John's scar. "But I don't know anything about magic at all. How can they expect me to do things? I'm famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for," Greg leaned across the table, wearing a very kind smile.
"Don't worry, John. I know it's hard, but you just got to be yourself. It doesn't matter what everyone expects of you; just do what you gotta do. I mean, look at you, you've even already made friends today! I'm sure you'll have a great time at Hogwarts — I did, and still do, actually."
Greg helped John on to the bus that would take him back to the Dillard's, then handed him an envelope.
"Your ticket for Hogwarts," he said. "First of September, King's Cross — well, it's all on your ticket," Greg said with finality as he grasped John's shoulder one last time. "See you soon, John."