When John finally met Molly's friend Sherlock, the tall Slytherin barely spared him a glance. Molly's introduction was overly enthusiastic, like much of what she did. "Sherlock, wait!" She tugged on his shirtsleeve until he slowed and actually turned his head to look at her, one eyebrow raised. "This is my friend, John Watson. John, Sherlock Holmes." She beamed up at Sherlock expectantly.
"Yes," he murmured, returning his nose to a Potions textbook that was clearly more advanced than any second-year should have access to. "Charming. I really must run, Molly." And with that he was gone, turning a corner and striding right through a crowd of fourth-year Gryffindor girls, who scattered and sent scathing looks at his back. John was left with his hand stuck out ready for a shake.
"Charming." John repeated the Slytherin's words, staring with a frown at the corner he'd disappeared around. Molly frowned in disappointment.
"Sorry," she sighed. "He can be a bit brusque. He's brilliant, though. I couldn't believe it when I heard he'd been put in Slytherin instead of Ravenclaw. He's brilliant." She scuffed her foot against the stone floor as John put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Well, maybe when he's less... busy." Not that Sherlock Holmes ever looked like he wasn't busy.
Almost a week later, John and Molly headed down to the Great Hall after a long evening of practicing stunning spells for Defense Against the Dark Arts. "I still don't understand," she worried aloud, running her fingers over her wand anxiously. "It's just not my strength, and..."
"You'll get it," John reassured her, clapping a hand on her shoulder. Defense Against the Dark Arts was his favorite class, and Professor Donovan told him he had natural talent. He was proud of that, even if the comment was delivered grudgingly. Molly's talents lied elsewhere, but her diligence kept her marks up in all her classes. "You just need a little more practice. We can - "
But Molly was no longer listening. "Oh, Sherlock's here!" She waved frantically at the lone figure sitting at the end of the Slytherin table, even though he was staring down into a book as always. "Come on, John, let's join him." John glanced around the Great Hall at the very few students who were eating so late, then followed a few steps behind her.
"Yeah, all right then." He sighed.
Molly slid into the seat directly across from Sherlock, and John sat next to her. "Evening!" she chirped, spooning shepherd's pie onto a plate. "John and I were just practicing for Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"John?" He flipped a page in the thick, dusty volume before him.
"John Watson?" Molly's voice was hesitant. "You - you met him the other day."
Half a glance was sent John's way. "Ah, yes." And then another page was flipped.
Molly frowned, poking her shepherd's pie with a fork. "What are you reading, then, Sherlock?"
"Nothing you would understand." The boy's voice was still flat, without a trace of emotion. John scowled as Molly's ears flamed bright red.
"You know, it wouldn't kill you to be civil," John snapped. He glared at the curly black hair across from him.
There was a pause, then the textbook snapped shut and piercing blue eyes scanned John from top to bottom. "Fine. Conversation, then. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you. You're a Hufflepuff first year, Muggle-born, bit of a loner. Your father is out of the picture, has been for years, and you claim it doesn't bother you, but I'm sure somewhere deep down it does. A natural defender, I would say - a wonder you aren't in Gryffindor, but I suppose loyalty has as much to do with that as bravery. Yet you aren't close with the other Hufflepuffs; you hang around with Molly, so you don't care as much about what other people think as you probably should. Your taste in -"
"Stop it!" Molly slapped the table, startling John, who'd been staring at Sherlock Holmes in open-mouthed incredulity. "Sherlock, you're being rude! John and I are friends, and you and I are friends -" John thought he saw a flicker at the edge of Sherlock's unsmiling mouth "- and John is right; it wouldn't kill you to be kind for once!" She sat back, breathing hard. Although her eyes looked wet, her jaw was set and steady. Sherlock's cold blue eyes met her brown ones.
"Fine." He closed the textbook carefully, maneuvering it so neither Molly nor John could see the cover, and placed it in his bag. "What would be kind of me? Shall I ask about how your days have been?"
"That would be nice," Molly answered pointedly. "And for your information, my day has been good." She glanced at John.
"Er - mine as well," he said, thoroughly nonplussed by this strange conversation. "It was good, yeah." They sat in silence for a moment, stirring their food. John's was growing cold. "So, how was yours, then?"
It almost looked like one corner of Sherlock's mouth would twitch up into a smile. "Boring."
"You say that every day," Molly's smile was returning slowly.
"Well, every day is boring," Sherlock drawled. "I can't help it that my answer never changes." He took a large bite of shepherd's pie. "God, that's awful. I'll be right back." Without another word, he shoved back his chair and strode out of the room.
"Where is he going?" John asked, horribly confused. Molly smiled, licking her fork clean.
"No idea," she answered. "But that's how it goes with him. Always has been. He'll be back."
Sure enough, Sherlock reentered the room in dramatic fashion a few moments later. "Here we are," he exclaimed, presenting a platter full of cakes and candies. "Dig in."
"How did you do that?" John asked, reaching for a piece of fudge. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, chewing a mouthful of sweets.
After they had polished off the tray of cakes, the three students exited the Great Hall. Molly, bouncing happily once again, split off and bounded towards the staircase to Ravenclaw Tower, calling good nights behind her. Sherlock and John continued on.
"How did you know all that about me, by the way?" John asked quietly. "Was it like those fake psychics? I mean, I know psychics aren't real - " He broke off as a though occurred to him. "Wait - wizards can't - I mean, they can't read minds, can they?" He felt foolish, but Sherlock shrugged as though it were a normal question.
"I'm not a Legilimens, if that's what you're asking." At John's blank look, he rolled his eyes. "Legilimency - that's what you mean. Although 'mind-reading' really is a terrible misrepresentation." John kept his mouth shut, resolving to do more research on that subject later.
At the staircase that led to the Slytherin dungeon, John stopped. After another step or two, so did Sherlock. "Isn't this your common room?" John asked, frowning.
"Yes, of course." Sherlock's face was blank. "And?"
"Well, aren't you going there now?" The question was met with that already-familiar eyebrow raise. "All right, then," John muttered, continuing down the hall until the Hufflepuff staircase appeared. "Well, I'm going here." The eyebrow stayed up. "So - good night, then." He set off down the stairs as Sherlock nodded and kept on his merry way.
It wasn't until he lay in bed that night, replaying every bit of bizarre conversation, that John realized the Slytherin had never answered his question. Sherlock Holmes was a strange character indeed.
John had a surprise when he entered the Potions classroom a few weeks before Christmas. Sherlock Holmes sat in the back row with legs extended and arms crossed, as though he owned the room. He nodded at John as the Hufflepuff first-years filed into the dungeon.
Professor Anderson seemed snippier than usual that morning. He ordered them to begin work - "Page sixty-seven, and if you need help with the instructions, I'd recommend you go back home and relearn how to read." - and stalked to his desk, scratching a quill furiously across a piece of parchment. John pulled out his textbook and flipped to page sixty-seven, then collected ingredients from the cupboard.
"Dreadfully boring, isn't it?" John jumped a foot in the air, nearly slicing the end of his finger along with the dandelion root he was chopping. John was surprised; in the weeks since they had eaten that tray of cakes, Sherlock had ignored him except for an occasional nod of acknowledgement in the hallway,.
"I mean," he answered hesitantly as he resumed slicing his root, "I wouldn't know. I'm usually too worried about messing it up to be bored. They do seem to be rather temperamental."
"Well, of course they are," Sherlock snapped. "It's a potion, John. You need exact measurements and exact preparation if you want them to give you exact results." He knocked John's hand away from the cauldron just as he started to add his chopped roots. "Really! You'll ruin it - you've skipped the stirring." John rolled his eyes with a scowl, kneeling to collect his roots from where they had scattered across the floor. He piled them onto his desk, pulling his textbook closer to check the instructions. Sure enough, he needed to stir his potion before the roots went in.
Sherlock watched silently as John counted his stirs under his breath. When he'd finished the complex pattern of clockwise and counterclockwise circles and added his roots, the Slytherin nodded. "So what're you doing here, anyway?" John asked, watching his potion fade from murky green to a pale, shimmering blue. "There's no way you're in remedial Potions."
"God, no," Sherlock scoffed. "I wanted to attend lessons with the fifth years - they're getting into the really interesting things, you know - but Anderson wouldn't hear it. He said I had to prove my maturity first, so here I am. He hates me, you know." John felt his ears burn; Sherlock wasn't bothering to keep his voice down. At the front of the room, Professor Anderson looked up from his parchment to glare in their direction.
"But he's your head of house," John muttered, adding his dandelion roots. "Why would he hate you?"
"Well, most people hate me," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John frowned at him. There was no self-pity in the Slytherin's tone, but surely no one could be that cold. "Anderson hates me because I'm smarter than he is. It doesn't help that I've learned more from reading library books than I could ever learn from him." Still he didn't lower his voice. Professor Anderson rose slowly and came towards them. John ducked his head over his book, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.
"You're not doing well, Holmes." Anderson's voice was steely and cold. "I suggest you leave Mr. Watson alone; if you wish to help your case for attending fifth-year classes, you should find someone who actually needs assistance." He gestured across the dungeons to Hilary Swanson, whose cauldron was belching out clouds of sulfur-yellow smoke. "I suppose you know how she could fix that problem?" He stared icily down at the second-year.
"Obviously." Sherlock's bored expression never wavered as he proceeded to rattle off a string of complex instructions which, based on Anderson's increasing glower, were exactly correct. John resolved to triple-check the instructions for every step to avoid having to make such complicated reparations. As he added the final ingredients and sat back to let his concoction simmer, he pursed his lips. Across the classroom, Sherlock was 'helping' Hilary in a loud and scathing tone that echoed through the room. Anderson did not intervene, even as Hilary's eyes threatened to spill over with tears.
John closed his eyes, considering. Sherlock groaned aloud, knocking a bottle out of Hilary's hand so it rolled across the floor and came to rest at John's feet. The Hufflepuff sighed, groaning inwardly as he reached a finger out and shoved a few leftover slices of dandelion root into his perfectly simmering potion. It congealed instantly and started letting off a thick green fog. Waving the foul-smelling haze away from his face, he leaned down to pick up Hilary's bottle and headed across the dungeons.
"Here you are," he said, placing Hilary's bottle on her desk and pointedly ignoring her welling eyes. By now her potion looked mostly back to normal, but Sherlock continued berating her. "Sherlock, when you get a moment, I could use some help." He stared evenly into the piercing blue eyes, which flickered over to John's cauldron and then rolled slightly.
"Fine. Yours is passable, I suppose," he shot at Hilary. "Come on, John." A girl rushed over to comfort Hilary as soon as Sherlock's back was turned, and the rest of the Hufflepuffs sat stony-faced, glaring daggers at the Slytherin. "More dandelion roots?" Sherlock asked, gazing disdainfully through the green haze. "What, did you think it needed a garnish?"
"My hand slipped," John muttered. Sherlock cracked his knuckles.
"Well, this one will be harder to straighten out," he said, and for the first time since John had met him, his voice sounded almost excited. "John, go to the cupboard. You'll need -" John froze, listening carefully, then rushed to the potions stores, muttering Sherlock's list under his breath. When his arms were loaded, he returned to his cauldron. "You'll need to work quickly," Sherlock said gleefully. "This is a challenge. Hurry up, John." The Hufflepuff followed his directions frantically, barely able to keep up as they rattled on and on. Finally, as John painstakingly added a single drop of dittany to his cauldron, he realized Sherlock had fallen silent.
"What now?" he asked, poised to reach for the next ingredient as he looked up at the second-year. Sherlock smiled triumphantly, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Look at the potion," he beamed. John obeyed, surprised to realize it had returned to its proper shimmery blue. "It's perfect! Good work, John! Good work!" He unfolded his arms, rubbing his hands together. "That was invigorating!"
John felt a grin spreading across his own face. "Thanks, Sherlock." He sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted.
"Any time, John, any time." He clapped loudly, making Professor Anderson jump as he leaned over Hilary Swanson's cauldron. The professor glared over his shoulder, then nodded at Hilary with a tight smile.
"Good work, Miss Swanson." He stood and walked towards John. Sherlock was nearly shaking in anticipation. Anderson glanced down into John's perfectly simmering potion without a smile. "See me after class, Watson." John blinked in surprise. "Dismissed!" Anderson waved his wand and the students' potions vanished. As the rest of the Hufflepuffs filed out, John approached Anderson's desk. He hadn't seen Sherlock exit, but the tall Slytherin was gone as well.
"Er - you wanted to see me, Professor?" John stopped a few feet away from the desk where Anderson stood, facing the back of the room. The professor turned slowly around, shaking his head.
"I saw what you did, Watson." John didn't flinch. He stared unblinkingly at a messy stack of essays on Anderson's desk. "Very... noble of you, but -" Anderson paced slightly closer. "Nobility is not always synonymous with wisdom."
"Well, sir," John said quietly, "I'm not in Ravenclaw." Anderson snorted.
"Yes, that's true. And you're not in Slytherin either, and you're not a second-year, so as far as I can tell, it wouldn't be difficult for you to avoid Sherlock Holmes altogether. And that is exactly what I would advise you to do. He's bad news, Watson. " John opened his mouth, but the professor raised a hand to cut him off. "Take my advice or leave it," he warned, "but I'll stand behind it. He's bad news." John didn't know what to say. "Dismissed." Anderson waved him towards the door. John headed up the stairs in a state of confusion and paused at the top of the stairs, looking back down towards the dungeon.
"Are you going to do it?" John spun around with a gasp. Sherlock Holmes was mere feet away, leaning against the wall.
"Sorry?" John looked around - where had he come from?
"Are you going to stay away from me? That's what Anderson's just told you to do, isn't it?" The Slytherin's voice was impatient. He frowned down at John, tapping a foot and waiting for an answer. "Well?"
John met his gaze. "No."
"Well then - " the tall boy spun around. "Just as I thought. Tell -" He froze, turning slowly back to John, then spoke more quietly, cautiously. "No?"
"No, I'm not listening to him. Why should I let Anderson tell me what to do? Just because he hates you doesn't mean he can stop the rest of the world from hanging around with you." He shrugged, adjusting the bag slung across his shoulder. Sherlock stared blankly at him. "So - were you planning on getting lunch soon?"
"Lunch?" It was the first time John had seen Sherlock Holmes look confused.
"Lunch. You know, food you eat in the middle of the day?" John felt a corner of his mouth twitch up in an accidental smirk.
"I'm not dense, John," snapped Sherlock, actually reddening for a moment. "Lunch, yes - let's go, then." And he swept off around the corner. John blinked, frozen for a moment. Then he shook his head to clear it and set off towards the Great Hall.