Sherlock had only ever been on a train once, when he was five. His mother and father had gone on a vacation to some tropical island somewhere, and so they had shipped Mycroft and himself off to a family friend in the country. Sherlock had found it boring, sitting in one spot for such a long time. That train ride, however, wasn't magic.
Sherlock could hardly believe his eyes as he stepped through the column between platform 9 and platform 10 (yes, right through it). Hundreds of children his age or a little older, along with their parents and younger siblings, hustled and bustled around the platform. All of them wore the same peculiar multicolored cloaks as in Diagon Alley. Funny, thought Sherlock, that Mycroft and himself, with their trousers and jumpers, would be the odd ones out.
The train, named the Hogwarts Express, blew steam into the air and sounded its horn. Sherlock turned to Mycroft. He was surprised to see tears in his brother's eyes.
"I'm proud of you," Mycroft said, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock smiled, threw his arms around his brother's waist, and tore off for the train, trunk rolling behind him.
The moment Sherlock stepped onto the train, he felt his very first bought of nervousness. Hundreds of children he didn't know giggled and ran about with each other throughout the cars. Hundreds of strangers. Funny, how they all seemed to know each other and not him.
Sherlock slid into the first empty compartment and sat in the farthest corner, next to the window. Outside, at the far end of the station, he could just barely see Mycroft over the heads of the crowd. He was talking to the young man in the emerald robes, the magic detective, again. Mycroft's face and ears were bright pink. Sherlock grinned and suppressed a laugh.
The sound of his compartment door sliding open made Sherlock jump. Standing in the door way was a boy, about his age. He was short and round, and his cheeks were bright and stood out against his pale skin. He shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Hullo," Sherlock said, hoping to ease the boy's nervousness. The boy smiled toothily and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"Hi, Mike Stanford, half-blood," he said, holding his hand out to Sherlock. Sherlock shook it. "Sherlock Holmes, er, not sure what sort of blood," he said awkwardly. Mike grinned toothily and sat down opposite to him. "Sounds to me like you're Muggle-born, eh?"
Sherlock remembered what the Auror had said to him in Diagon Alley. "I've been called that already," Sherlock said thoughtfully, "Muggle-born. What's it mean?"
Mike looked at him like he had just asked the most obvious question in the world. It made Sherlock's insides churn. "It means your parents are Muggles. You know, not magic users?"
Sherlock's heart sank. He didn't like the word "Muggle". When Mike said it, it sounded like there was something wrong with his parents for not using magic. Like they were less than people. He suddenly felt like he didn't want people to know about his heritage. "Don't worry," Mike said quickly as Sherlock's face turned white, "I'm half-blood, so that means one of my parents is a Muggle. That's my dad. He's a bit spacey, like, really into stars and planets and things. He works at a Muggle school, you know, a university, where he's an astro-something or other professor. He says it took him a lot of work to be one, but I don't see how looking through a weird tube at some lights in the sky is hard work…"
Mike Stanford continued to babble on. Sherlock stayed relatively quiet. He didn't really know what to say. He had grown up his whole life never knowing about magic. He knew he was peculiar, as his teachers often put it, but he never imagined anything as mad at wizardry. He knew nothing about it. And Sherlock hated not knowing things.
So, Sherlock directed his attention to Mike Stanford. His robes were a little too long for his short frame, the sleeves falling a little bit too far past his hands. So, they were hand-me-downs. Probably from an older sibling, considering that they didn't seen too old. There were small tears around the bottoms of his trousers and small, white hairs stuck to them. So, he probably had a cat—the hair was too low on his pants and too long to be a dog's. He seemed relatively relaxed in himself, and he knew when the sweet trolley made its rounds; so, he had made the trip before. Judging by how young he looked, Sherlock guessed that he was probably in second-year.
"… And wait until you meet John, he's my mate from third-year. He's a year older than I am, so two years older than you, but he don't care. One of my closest friends, he is. I met him last year while trying out for the Quidditch team; I didn't make it, but John did. He's the best beater the team has. Probably the best beater in the whole school—,"
"Don't tell him that, Mikey, or he'll be a might disappointed when he actually sees me play." Sherlock started. He hadn't heard the door slide open over the noise of the train. Standing in the doorway was an older boy. He had messy blonde hair and striking eyes whose colour Sherlock could not quite put his finger on. He was muscular, though still had the lanky look of a kid. He beamed a smile at Sherlock. Sherlock blushed and looked away.
"It's true, you're fantastic on a broom, John," Mike laughed, and turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, this is John Watson, beater for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. John, this is Sherlock, he's a first-year and Muggle-born." Sherlock shot a look at Mike. He didn't like that he was shouting it around like it was nothing. Mike didn't notice.
"Muggle-born, eh? That's fantastic," John said, and sat down next to Sherlock. Sherlock moved closer to the window. "So that means you're brand new to the whole wizarding world, yeah? I've got a few Muggles in my family, actually, married in and all that. My sister is actually dating a girl who's dad is Muggle-born. It's a pretty common thing, you know. No need to be ashamed of it or anything."
Sherlock glanced John's way, surprised. He had caught on pretty quick that Sherlock was feeling nervous. John smiled and began making conversation about Quidditch—whatever sport that was—with Mike. Sherlock continued to study John. He was kind, obviously, and could pick up on surface emotions relatively quickly. He was intelligent for normal kids, considering the way he spoke. But there was also something dark about him… His shoulders were tight, his back rigid. There were lines in his brow that shouldn't be there for a kid his age. He wore his shirt sleeves down, unlike most of the other kids as easy-going as him.
Sherlock swallowed as he watched John pull at his cuff for the third time in a minute, and looked away. He felt invasive. And for the first time, Sherlock didn't want to know what he was hiding beneath his shirt.
