Disclaimer: Unfortunately, neither I nor my amazing co-writer HNAKXR own the rights to Sherlock and Harry Potter. If we did, this would be considered canon - and isn't that a terrifying thought?
A/N: So I realize that a lot of people thoroughly enjoyed the previous version of this story, but we didn't.
Our main issue was with Sherlock's air of mystery, or what one might call his "enigmatic quality," which is a big part of his character and ultimately one of the main reasons he's remained such a popular and well-known character over full century later. Narrating things from Sherlock's perspective kind of ruined that. We spent a LOT of time (way back when HNAKXR was still just the beta) trying to work out the proper way to write his deductions, and how his thought processes should flow, and what details should be commented upon, and how his personality would influence the way things were written, but all that did was ruin the character.
From here on out, Ginny is the primary perspective, and the story will be told as if from her memoirs. Chapter 1 will remain as is, since we feel it still works fairly well as an introduction, but chapter 2 has been pulled, rewritten entirely, and re-uploaded. As an apology to those who did enjoy the original version, we're willing to send you a copy by PM if you want it. Just notify us in a review or by PM and we'll send it over.
TLDR: This is a rewrite. Things will be different. We apologize.
Chapter 2: Perspective
I met Sherlock Holmes on the train to Hogwarts.
I remember much of that year in alternating patches of clarity and haze. On that day in particular, there were blue skies and a bright sun, and yet between my bubbling insecurities and my crush on Harry, I just felt like hiding.
This, in retrospect, might characterize more of the year than I'm comfortable admitting.
In any case, I didn't feel much like sitting with other people - especially not my many, many brothers - so I found the emptiest compartment around and decided to hole up in it.
Inside was a boy who looked to be about my age, with black, curly hair, the aristocratic features of a pureblood, and a muggle trenchcoat that looked like it would suit him a lot better in ten or twenty years. Standing hesitantly by the door, I called out to him. "Hello, do you mind if I sit here?" I asked.
He looked me over quickly and carefully, and I got the impression I was being evaluated by some unknown metric before he simply said, "Sure." And that was that, apparently.
Managing a smile, I sat down. "Thanks. My name's Ginny-" Weasley. I stopped short, surname hanging in the still air between us. My cheeks burned to match my trademark hair, which typically served as an introduction in itself. I stood there, anticipating the inevitable spark of recognition in his eyes.
Revealing my surname to a pureblood? He'd sneer me straight out of the cabin!
"Sherlock." He turned back to his book.
No such luck. Thank Merlin.
Taking that as my cue, I began looking through my bag for a book to read. Not Tom, of course, but a good Lockhart book would be nice. Perhaps Gadding with Ghouls...
Feeling something of about the right size brush against my fingers, I pulled out my secondhand copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One. Sparing only a quick glance at Sherlock to check if he'd seen its run-down state, I hastily stowed it back in the back and retrieved the closest Lockhart book I could find.
Ah, well; Magical Me wasn't my favourite by any means, but I supposed it would do. I lingered slightly on the first page, where Lockhart had signed the book to Harry - honestly, if I didn't like the book so much, I probably would have torn the page out and hung it up on my wall.
However, as I turned the page to examine the table of contents, Sherlock decided to speak up.
"I suppose you could stay with your brother - if you weren't absolutely infatuated with his friend." He turned a page placidly as my heart dropped. I looked up at him, eyes narrowed.
"I've only just met you. How…?"
He sighed at my wary confusion and said, "Your books."
I stole a glance at the hastily stowed copy of The Standard Books of Spells. Surely-
"I suppose your robes, too," he continued, apparently oblivious to my bewilderment. "Both are secondhand, with the exception of Lockhart's material, the only new addition to the Hogwarts curriculum." The train jolted beneath us. "So your family is either frugal or poor, and – shot in the dark here – I'd lean towards poor. The way that you quickly hid your secondhand textbook but happily displayed your firsthand one tells me that you are at least a little ashamed of your secondhand items, making poverty a much more likely candidate."
He said all of this very quickly. Pausing for breath, he continued.
"Next, the four names on your books. On the secondhand copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, a Mr. Charlie Weasley had written his name in black ink, and then in that same black ink – but a different handwriting – the 'Charlie' was crossed out and replaced with 'Ginny.' Same last names says family relationship; same textbook and ink says similar age – so brother, then. The other two names are 'Harry' and 'Gilderoy Lockhart.'"
Not taking my eyes off of him, I turned back quickly to the first page.
"Yes, precisely. 'To my fan, Harry,' and then Lockhart's signature and some hearts around both names. Crushes, I presume. The handwriting for this bit is far loopier than either yours or your brother's, so I'd warrant it belongs to the celebrity himself, or more likely one of his enchanted quills. The fact that it's addressed to this 'Harry' but you're holding it means either that you bought him the books and he rejected them or that he bought you the books and you kept them. Your lack of money makes the former unlikely, so he bought you the books."
Sherlock leaned over and placed his elbows on his knees. "But then the name. Why Harry? Why not your name, if the books were a gift to you? I'd say he got the books for himself, but that he gave them to you when he found out you couldn't afford them, making him a probable student at Hogwarts. However, you're insecure about your money – you'd never tell your crush that you couldn't buy Lockhart's complete set. Somebody else told him, probably a family member, and so his status as a student makes your older brother the most likely candidate.
"You have a crush on a schoolboy at Hogwarts named 'Harry' who is friends with your brother, and you aren't sitting with either for the train ride. Conclusion: you won't sit with your brother because he's sitting with your crush."
Sherlock turned back to his book.
"That was…" I trailed off.
"Insufferable? Annoying? Invasive?"
"Well, yes – but I was going to say amazing." I remarked, bemused. Sherlock slowly closed his book and looked at me contemplatively.
"You know, you're the second person to tell me that."
"Incidentally, did I get anything wrong?" He asked me as we left the train.
"Well, you're right about most of it. I didn't see my brother on the train, but I wouldn't have wanted to sit with him anyway, since he's best mates with Harry." My cheeks dusted a slight pink, but I fought down the rising blush that always seemed to follow Harry Potter. "His name's Ron, though."
Sherlock frowned. "Ron? Not-" and then the realization struck him and he groaned, palming his face in his two gloved hands. "Multiple brothers! It's always something…"
"So where did you learn to do that, anyway?" I asked him as we gathered around Hagrid and followed him to the boats. "I mean, you can't be much older than me, and I'm only eleven."
"Taught myself," he said shortly, adjusting the collar of his robes. "My brother and I worked it out growing up."
"You have a brother?" I asked. 'Is he as smart as you?' I wondered.
"Had." He grimaced slightly.
"Oh," I said dumbly. "Sorry."
"Don't be." He sighed. "Mycroft was always a bit of an arse. 'Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one.' Right arse, he was."
I gaped at him, shocked. My siblings got on my nerves, but I also knew I'd be devastated if any of them actually died. How could Sherlock speak so dispassionately about his brother?
(I had no idea then, of course, that he was anything but.)
Seeing my expression of disbelief, he rolled his eyes. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath; love isn't really my thing. Don't worry, though: I haven't killed anyone," he added brightly, before pausing and amending: "Well, nobody good, anyway."
I decided it was probably better not to ask questions about his brother after that.
"So…Where are you from?" I asked instead.
He didn't answer for a moment, just looked slightly to the right with this weird, vacant expression on his face, and I wondered if maybe he hadn't heard me. Just in case, I decided to restate the question: "Where are-"
"I heard you the first time," he said, interrupting me. "It's just... London. I'm from London."
"Oh." He seemed unwilling to share any further information, so I ventured, "I'm from Devon. We live in this parish called Ottery St. Catchpole, right on the River Otter. Loads of muggles nearby."
He frowned at me, with a truly puzzled expression on his face for the first time since I'd met him. "Don't you mean Ottery St. Mary? Population of about 5000, crime rate of around 40, 15 kilometres east of Exeter…"
"I don't know about the crime rate," I said, "but the rest sounds a lot like Ottery St. Catchpole. Maybe you just got it mixed up?"
"Yes... Yes, of course. Fascinating!" he said excitedly, rubbing his hands together. I raised an eyebrow at his behavior. "It's not all the same! There are minor differences…"
"Minor differences in what, exactly?" I asked confusedly. "What are you talking about?"
He seemed to recall that I was standing next to him and hastily said, "Ah, nothing. Don't worry about it; I'm just rambling. You'll have to tell me about Ottery St. Catchpole sometime, although perhaps not now - I doubt your hometown neighbor over there will appreciate you ignoring her," nodding his head towards a blonde-haired girl to my left.
I spun around to greet Luna, pale skin glowing in contrast to her jet-black robes, clutching the most recent edition of The Quibbler. It wasn't until we boarded a boat that I thought to introduce Luna to Sherlock, realizing belatedly that he had already boarded a boat well ahead of our own.
Staring at the cool demeanor under the mess of curly black hair, I shivered. Neighbor... How did he know?
After climbing several flights of stairs, we were herded into a small, empty chamber near the Great Hall, dimly illuminated by flaming torches along the walls. As we waited, we began pressing together nervously, with a supremely discomfited Sherlock Holmes fidgeting awkwardly near the center.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," the fabled Professor McGonagall said. I peered up at her with a kind of wary curiosity fed by tales from my older brothers. They claimed that she was the strictest, most no-nonsense teacher I'd ever meet, and by the hard expression on her face I was tempted to agree. "You will join the start-of-term banquet shortly, but before you begin eating you will be sorted into your houses. I do hope you take the Sorting seriously, as your house will be something like your family while you are here at Hogwarts. You will eat with your house, have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitories, and spend free time in your house common room. In short, it will be extraordinarily important, and I hope you treat it as such."
And wasn't that the truth. Gryffindors were brave, Ravenclaws were smart, Hufflepuffs were hardworking, and Slytherins were conniving - except for Tom, of course - and I would be spending my next seven years surrounded by students from exclusively one of those denominations. It was big, it was life-changing, and it was utterly terrifying.
What if I failed? What if I ended up surrounded by Slytherins for seven years, rejected by my family as a turncoat Weasley and by my housemates as a blood traitor? What if I got sorted amongst the frequently bullied Hufflepuffs? Or perhaps I could find myself in Ravenclaw, where I would no doubt be completely out of my depth trying to keep up with people who judged my worth entirely by my intelligence. Gryffindor was by far my favorite option, but only a quarter of each incoming class joined the house of the brave and the daring...
I bit my lip worriedly. It was enough to make a girl mad, and I wrote as much to Tom when I got too nervous.
"Of course I remember the Sorting," He wrote back. "In my day, every Hogwarts student was considered by the Sorting Hat - a personality assessment of sorts. I don't know precisely how it works, but I wouldn't worry overmuch. Most people end up right where they belong."
My heart slowed in my chest, and it wasn't until I was fully calm again that I realized I'd been close to hyperventilating.
What would I do without you, Tom?
"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."
She glanced pointedly at a few of the messier students, one being a kid with mousy brown hair and brown eyes, before leaving in a swirl of emerald robes.
As the ornate doors of the entry hall closed with a dull thud, I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, and was jolted back to reality by the shrill screech of the brown-haired kid beside me. I turned my head in the direction of his pointed finger.
"Forgive and forget, I say; we ought to give him a second chance-" A portly, translucent monk floating in midair seemed to be saying, but he was quickly cut off by another figure in a ruff and tights: "My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not even really a ghost – I say, what are you all doing here?"
He seemed to have finally noticed us. Nobody answered what were clearly the Hogwarts ghosts.
"New students!" exclaimed the Friar as if in realization, smiling about. "About to be sorted, I suppose?"
Some of us nodded, nobody daring to shatter the spell of silence that seemed to have overcome us. I arched an eyebrow in hesitant curiosity. Hadn't Ron mentioned…?
My train of thought and the silence were both interrupted as Sherlock sighed heavily, before turning and arching his neck to address the apparitions.
"Oh, please," he said, his tone dripping with derision. "You can't actually expect us to believe that you just chanced upon us, can you?"
The Friar opened his mouth and then closed it with a slight pop. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I'm afraid I don't follow."
"Then allow me to make this perfectly clear," he responded. "If you didn't know the first years were here, you wouldn't have known that today was the start of school, and thus you would have had no clue there was a feast about to take place. So why, then, are half the ghosts of Hogwarts heading en masse to the Great Hall?"
There was a beat of stunned silence, before the Fat Friar began laughing uproariously.
"What refreshing honesty! You'd do well in Hufflepuff." the Friar said, floating down to Sherlock with a pleased white flush turning his face opaque. Sherlock leaned away. "My old house, you know! Why, I-"
"Move along now," came a sharp voice. McGonagall had returned, and so the ghosts reluctantly complied, solemnly floating on through the wall to the feast. "The Sorting Ceremony is about to start. Form a line and follow me."
I fell into step behind Luna into the Great Hall.
Thousands of candles floated at varying heights over four, long tables, at which students of varying-coloured robes were sitting. Golden goblets and plates rested in front of them, but they were empty; the food had not been passed out yet. It made them cranky, and many looked at the newcomers with a mixture of annoyance and impatience.
The staff sat composedly at a much shorter and more decorated table at the top of the hall, raised on a dais of sorts. McGonagall led the line to the very edge of the dais and told us to wait there. Every student's face was turned towards them, though a gaze would now and then be obscured by a flash of misty silver as a ghost floated past.
Many grew uncomfortable under the constant scrutiny from the older students. I scanned the crowd for the familiar ginger hair in the crowd, a wave of relief washing over me as I saw Percy and his horn-rimmed glasses perched importantly at the head of the Gryffindor Table.
Looking to the right and leaning forward slightly to see around the fidgeting Firsties, I observed McGonagall placing a worn and dirty old wizard's hat on a four-legged stool. Tom was right, then.
Of course he was.
The hat twitched, a rip near the bottom opened wide like a mouth, and the hat burst into song.
I broke into a grin. He really was looking out for me.
The students applauded as the song finished, and the hat bowed to each table before stilling once again. McGonagall walked up to it with a long roll of parchment and said, "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted. Avery, Marcus!"
A boy with a blond ponytail emerged calmly from somewhere in front of Sherlock and then walked up onto the dais, where he set the hat atop his head. Or tried to, anyway – it was clearly designed for an adult, and so the brim slipped over his eyes. His veneer of calm composure slipping away with a sudden blush, he attempted to lift the brim back up to his forehead, but before he could the hat opened its rip wide and barked out a single word:
"SLYTHERIN!"
The table furthest to the left broke the Great Hall's still silence to celebrate the newest addition to their ranks. Avery smirked proudly and joined a couple older students near the end.
I watched the boy go, unsurprised. Those robes weren't cheap - obviously beyond the realm of Madam Malkin's expertise. How often had Dad groused to us over dinner about the Avery family? Death Eaters through and through: rich, powerful, muggle-hating - aristocracy at its worst.
Slytherin was the obvious choice.
"Bank, Sharon!"
More nervously this time, a girl rushed out of line and jammed the hat onto her head.
"GRYFFINDOR!" it cried, and Sharon threw the hat onto the seat before rushing over to the second table from the left. I found myself kind of surprised. With all her nervousness, she didn't really fit the Gryffindor stereotype, and yet Bank wasn't a common pureblood name, so Slytherin was probably out too. I suppose I'd guessed her to be a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw - but then, the Sorting Hat surely knew more about its own business than I did.
"Carrow, Flora!" A blonde, sallow-faced girl in front of her marched up and wore the hat, using her hands to keep the brim from sliding down over her eyes. She didn't need to hold it up long.
"SLYTHERIN!" exclaimed the hat quickly. No surprises there - the Carrows were just as notorious as the Malfoys, if less intelligent, wealthy, and influential.
The leftmost table clapped again. "Carrow, Hestia" joined her sister in Slytherin shortly afterwards.
"Creevey, Colin!" McGonagall called, and the mousy-haired boy from the entrance hall joined Sharon Bank in Gryffindor.
"Darrow, Amanda" became the first Ravenclaw, and "Finley, Beckett" joined Hufflepuff shortly thereafter.
Finally, "Holmes, Sherlock" was called up to put on the hat. Perking up at the familiar name, I returned my full attention to the seat and watched my new acquaintance eagerly take the hat and drop it over his hair. As the rim of the Sorting Hat slipped over his eyes, his hands clutching the edges of the stool, Sherlock's body seemingly froze, paralyzed.
I watched his face. Every now and then it would twitch slightly, the barest hints of emotion flicking across it: surprise, wariness, despair, curiosity, excitement, sheepishness, and eventually the confident smirk of success.
The hat opened its brim and roared "RAVENCLAW!"
Sherlock emerged from beneath the hat, ran a hand through his black, messy curls, and made his way to a politely applauding Ravenclaw table. A tall student stood up near the front to shake his hand, but he simply walked right past and dropped down between two older boys, deep in thought.
"Lovegood, Luna" was called up next, and I glanced back at my friendly neighbor gliding up to the hat with an unusual mix of serenity and excitement. Luna was always an oddball, but I don't think even I expected what happened next: she'd barely put on the hat when a dry, surprised chuckle emerged from the rip in the brim. Murmurs rippled through the crowd of expectant students at this unprecedented display of levity from what was essentially a piece of enchanted clothing.
Folding slightly into what could only be described as a grin, the hat contemplated for a short half-second and then roared, "RAVENCLAW!" Luna stood up, positively radiant.
Of course. In our later years at Hogwarts, Luna had always been the more thoughtful and measured of the two of us. She kept my impulsive decisions in check. At the time, though, I'd simply held doubts about us not ending up in Gryffindor together - but I suppose it took a magical hat to confirm them.
I clapped politely, the slightest sensation of sadness settling in my stomach.
The crowd of first years slowly thinned out as McGonagall worked her way through the alphabet. Finally, "Weasley, Ginny" was called out.
I started, and made to approach the stage, but I found I could not move. My legs were made of lead, my shoes were bolted to the floor. I could feel the eyes of McGonagall, the Headmaster, and the entire student body pinning me in place. A breath built up in my body, hesitant and wary and afraid, and I-
Calm down, Ginny.
-and I exhaled, casting aside my nervousness like ruined garments. Gryffindors did not fear the unknown.
Before I knew it, I was standing by the stool with my feet planted resolutely on the ground, the frayed hat in my hands. I glanced down at it and then placed it so that it fell over my eyes, before collapsing backwards through the darkness onto the stool.
"Ah, another Weasley," it mused, its deep voice reverberating through the inside of my head. I started slightly. "I suppose you're the last, though, at least for the next twenty or thirty years."
I sat quietly as the hat mulled over my future. After a while, it spoke:
"Difficult. You're smart, no doubt about that, and I can tell you'll be quite the talented witch when you've grown some, but knowledge for knowledge's sake isn't really your cup of tea, is it?"
The hat paused, and I wondered if I was perhaps supposed to answer it. As I opened my mouth to tell it "no," however, it continued right on with its spiel:
"No, I thought not. And while your ambition and talent would make you quite popular with the Slytherins, I can also tell you wouldn't ever be truly happy amongst the snakes. Which leaves only two choices left…"
Realizing where the hat was going with all this, I shut my eyes tight and crossed my fingers.
Please choose Gryffindor, please choose Gryffindor, please choose Gryffindor...
"Are you sure?" The hat asked, a smirk buried somewhere in its voice. "You would make quite the Hufflepuff - charismatic, hardworking, loyal. But you still choose Gryffindor?"
I nodded fervently, not caring anymore that the whole hall could see me, if only it would help me to be a Gryffindor with Ron and Fred and George and even Percy - please, please choose Gryffindor!
"Yes, yes. Just wanted to hear you say it; I'm sure you'll make a wonderful addition to GRYFFINDOR!"
The last word was shouted to the hall. As the hat was whipped off my head, I stumbled down, blind with happiness. Fred and George led the cheers, Gryffindor table roaring to life with approval at my Sorting.
I plopped down next to the twins and begrudgingly allowed them to ruffle my hair. Percy pompously clapped my shoulder, Hermione walked over to give me a hug, and, still aglow with warmth and acceptance, I turned to Ron and-
Where exactly was Ron?
A/N: A lot of you may have noticed that Ginny seems either a lot more timid or else a lot more outgoing than she was in her canon portrayal, depending on how you look at things. This is because, while Ginny is an outgoing person normally, she becomes very shy and reserved in the company of Harry (at least at first), where she is most often seen. As such, it's difficult to tell how outgoing and kickass she really was before she got over her infatuation a little, which is where the dilemma of our characterization comes from. We did a lot of research to try and pin down how she would be.
For example, she's smart in canon, so we're making her perceptive and quick-witted, but we also see that finances are a sore spot for much of the Weasley family (Ron and the twins especially) so we've made her at least a little ashamed of how poor she is. This means she'll notice purebloods quickly and hesitate to reveal her family to them during her first one or two years at Hogwarts. She's also going to be confident, of course, but she'll harbor some nasty insecurities for a little bit, exacerbated by her correspondence with Tom Riddle. This is also mentioned in the Chamber scene when Tom laments how boring her trifling concerns were.
And so on, so forth. If you have an issue with the portrayal, we're all ears. Just leave a review and we'll try to get back to you!