On the contrary, most of his anxiety centered on social interaction, particularly with children. I'm ashamed to look back and not remember a single instance of his speaking with another child. Harry had always been surrounded by adults. Sherlock, clients, constables, and criminals; these were his social influences. Harry rightfully surmised his lack of development in this area, and sought to correct it. But when asked how to act around peers his own age, I found myself at a loss.
Surprising all present, Sherlock came forward with a simple solution. "Whenever uncertain about how to treat an individual, I opt to treat them as if they were a client."
Harry's relief at having guidelines was not reflected in myself. I was well aware of how Holmes handled his clients. Respectful, but distant. Helpful but unattached. An attitude designed for business, not friendship.
-Excerpt from A Study in Magic, by John Watson, MD
-oOo-
For the first time since his introduction to the wizarding world, Harry had time to think. Professor McGonagall lead him through London streets, marching briskly through throngs of humanity. According to her, they were en route to King's Cross train station, where he would board the Hogwarts Express. Harry took advantage of the lull, and played back his visit to Diagon Alley- retrospective contemplation was something Sherlock encouraged.
As Harry recalled the day so far, and cringed. The sights, the sounds, the implications of everything had dazzled him. So far, with one day not even over, he had experienced a broader range of emotion than one felt in a week at Baker Street.
Slightly overwhelming, but not an entirely unexpected result. Sherlock Holmes did not approve of emotion, after all. They were admirable things for the observer- excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was a dangerous endeavor. Introducing such factors might throw doubt upon all of one's mental results. To the great detective, the least harmful of all emotions were humor and sarcasm, but even these he sparingly employed.
This view reflected Holmes' broad dismissal of the peripherals of everyday life, from emotion to technology. To him, they were truly unnecessary, for at his smoldering core was one thing: a passion for the study of criminal nature. All else was secondary.
In a modern world, Holmes did very little to keep up with progress. He did not shun advancement, but remained cautious. Technology allowed great convenience, and encouraged great dependence. To be dependent on anything but himself filled the detective with abhorrence.
Harry often heard his father wax poetic on the subject, but the core tenet was simple: "Science," maintained Holmes, "Will never stop moving forward, but the minds and motives of men will always remain the same."
After today, Harry saw significant parallels between technology and magic. Both were powerful, and if the spells so far had been any indication, both had great potential for addiction.
-oOo-
Walking up the steps to King's Cross station, McGonagall focused on the teeming mass of muggles surrounding her. She did not notice the veil that seemed to drop over Harry's eyes, or how he swept a single, calculating gaze over the crowd. If she had, she would have seen, for a brief moment, the exact expression of Sherlock Holmes working a case.
Once inside, McGonagall pulled out a small pocket watch and frowned at it. "I'm running a bit late. Can you board the train without me?"
Harry nodded. "I think I can handle it."
McGonagall handed him a train ticket. "I'm sure you can. Safe trip, Mr. Potter."
"And you."
McGonagall nodded sharply, turned on her heel, and marched off. The crowd parted like minnows before a shark.
Harry stood alone, and did not miss the stares drawn by Hedwig. The owl was perched on his shoulder, and had gotten even more attention on the way to the station. A few individuals even asked to pet her, cooing all the while. Hedwig, for her part, held herself like a queen, not minding the attention in the slightest.
Harry examined his ticket, then again with narrowed eyes. The boarding platform was listed as number nine and three-quarters. With a familiar rush of adrenaline, he began making his way towards the boarding area, and gave Hedwig an affectionate pat.
"The games afoot, girl."
-oOo-
Harry looked to the left. There was platform nine. He glanced right, and glared at the sign emblazoned with a large "10".
Harry sat on a bench between the two platforms, annoyed. Was this some kind of test, he wondered? Some sort of proof of magic? Such methods didn't seem McGonagall's style, though. She had acted as though boarding would be a simple affair, like it was obvious.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, leaned forward, and examined his surroundings once more. He slowly scanned the area, and a glint caught his eye. A yard away, next to a support beam, sat a penny.
"A penny saved..." he thought, getting up.
Harry walked to the coin, bent down, and stared in shock. He reached down and pinched the coin between his fingers, amazed at what he held.
It was one of those wizard coins. A knut, he recalled.
Harry straightened, using the motion to inconspicuously search the area. It was then he became aware of yet another oddity.
It was the people. Hedwig had gotten looks all day, even as he had sat just a moment ago. Now, not a single person paid her the smallest bit of attention. The endless stream of passerby's seemed curiously inattentive to the little boy with an owl on his shoulder.
An older gentleman passing by locked eyes with him for a moment, and Harry waved. The man walked on without reaction; his empty gaze slid over Harry as if the boy did not exist.
Just like my trunk, Harry thought. He glanced down at the ever-present container, and considered the charms woven into it's wood. Muggle-repellents, McGonagall had called them. It appeared something similar was at work.
Deciding embarrassment was a small price to pay for experimentation, Harry decided to test, through carefully calibrated experimentation, his newly formed hypothesis.
He screamed.
He made the kind of noise usually reserved for dying water buffalo, and no one paid him any mind. No one even blinked.
Definitely magic, Harry thought. The only question was when it had taken effect. He gave the knut in his hand a suspicious look, and tossed it away. He waited for a commuter to pass close by, a suited businessman, and tugged hard at the person's coat.
"Excuse me, mister..."
The man slowed his stride and glanced down. Harry watched as the man's eyes focused upon him, and then glazed over. The disturbing moment took only a second, with the businessman never stopping.
"Alright," said Harry, "That was creepy."
The coin wasn't responsible, then. Harry gave another look around, but the only thing nearby was a brick pillar; identical support beams rose to the ceiling between each platform.
Harry stilled, and thoughts whirred. Test? Like Holmes? No, not her style. Nine and Ten. Between each platform. A simple affair. Obvious.
Reaching out, he made to rap his knuckles against the support beam's brickwork.
His fist passed straight through.
Grinning like a loon, Harry Holmes-Potter passed through the facade to platform nine and three-quarters. He never looked back.
-oOo-
Judging from the crowd, or lack of, he must have been early. Not surprising, if he had McGonagall at all pegged. Harry doubted the professor had been late for anything in her life.
The magical side of King's Cross Station was decidedly nicer than the muggle side, with an appearance mishmashed between modern and 19th century. Dominating the platform, in all its gleaming glory, was the Hogwarts Express.
First things first, thought Harry. He walked to the platform's end, where the train tunnel opened into the countryside, and felt Hedwig's weight on his shoulder. McGonagall had said magic owls knew where to go, even if you didn't.
"Want to fly ahead, Hedwig? Stretch your wings a bit?"
The owl flapped once, and swiveled her head to face the open sky.
"All right. See you at Hogwarts."
Hedwig launched from his shoulder, causing Harry to wince, and flew away with striking speed.
Harry turned to board the train, and rolled his shoulder. He hadn't realized just how much Hedwig had been holding back today; he'd have to get some kind of shoulder pad.
Once on board, Harry settled into an empty compartment, and idly stared out the window. His trunk settled itself under the window, lowering with a solid thud. Some time had passed, which he spent watching the slowly thickening crowd, when the compartment door slid open.
A pale boy with dark hair poked his head around the door. His words were painfully soft. "Can I sit here?"
Harry nodded. The boy's shoulders sagged with relief. He entered without another word, and set down a trunk, an empty cage, and himself. The boy then proceeded to stare at his lap.
Chronically shy, Harry thought, and that suited him fine. Like Holmes, Harry found silence best for thinking, and he had much to think about.
The two sat in silence for a long while, two statues with dark hair, until the compartment door re-opened.
Harry raised an eyebrow at the bushy-haired girl who practically skipped into the compartment. She wore a look he had seen once before, when working a case with Sherlock. That particular client was bipolar, and at the time, on a manic high.
"Room for one more?" the girl asked.
Harry wordlessly gestured to the seat across from him, next to the pale boy.
Taking a seat, she slid her trunk to the side and thrust out a hand to the person beside her. The boy flinched.
"I'm Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you."
The pale boy gave a limp handshake. "Neville Longbottom."
Whipping her head around, Hermione fixed Harry with an expectant look.
Harry tried hard to keep a straight after hearing Neville's surname. What kind of etymological origin could a name like Longbottom possibly have?
"Pleasure's mine, Hermione. I'm Harry Potter."
Hermione gave a kind of choked cough, and Neville's eyes seemed very close to bulging out of his head.
They know, Harry thought. Not good.
With the way Ollivander spoke earlier, all whispers and furtive glances, Harry had assumed the Boy Who Lived thing was a big secret. Apparently not. Worse, Ollivander had mentioned still-active followers of Voldemort. If Harry's role in the affair was indeed known...
Harry felt his adrenal glands starting to rev into overdrive, and took a deep breath. Don't jump to conclusions, he thought. Wait. Gather the data. And in the meantime, lie like a rug.
He smiled at Hermione. "I know it's not a very common name, but…"
She goggled at him. "Y-you're The Boy Who Lived! You defeated He Who Must Not Be Named! You're in books!" She said the last part with near reverence, and with each exclamation, Harry's smiled wilted.
Hermione started to rummage in a satchel at her waist. "Do you have a quill?" She asked. "You just have to sign-"
Harry cleared his throat. "Hermione?"
She froze with a slip of parchment in hand. "Yeah?"
"Before I go signing anything, could I say something?"
She nodded rapidly.
Harry scratched the back of his head. "Everyone tells me I did this great thing. I was only a year old, and supposed to have defeated this great dark wizard. It all seems...a little improbable."
Hermione looked uncertain. "So…you're saying-"
"I'm not saying anything. That's the point. No survivors, no witnesses, and I don't remember a thing about it, so who's to say anything? "
Hermione stared, and Harry shrugged. "Bottom line." he said. "I'm just not comfortable being famous for something I can't even remember."
Now Neville was staring at him, too.
Hermione very slowly put away the parchment slip, and regarded him quietly. "You know, you're kind of different from what I expected."
Harry didn't want to know what she'd expected, and was feeling a whole new kind of gratitude for his adoptive father. Sherlock was a man unconcerned with appearances, and Harry's hair fell around his eyes and ears in a frightful mess, keeping his scar well-hidden. Not that he had ever cared before, but now that same mark was like a target on his forehead.
Silence reigned while two children contemplated the words of their compartment companion, while Harry contemplated the benefits and repercussions of wearing a hat everywhere.
Hermione twitched, chewed her bottom lip, then straightened in her seat, determined to get the conversation rolling again. "Anyway," she said, "I saw you at the station. You had that owl."
"Her name's Hedwig," said Harry.
"She was absolutely gorgeous. I don't have a pet, myself. How about you, Neville?"
Neville looked surprised to be invited into the conversation. He swallowed, opened his mouth, then looked down. Harry could see unshed tears welling up in the boy's eyes.
Hermione leaned closer. "Neville?"
The boy drew in a ragged breath and choked something out, barely understandable. "I lost mine."
Hermione looked suitable apologetic, and consoled him with a few pats on the back.
Harry leaned back and brought his fingertips together. "What kind of pet?"
Neville rubbed his eyes. "Toad."
"And when did you first notice he'd escaped?"
Hermione looked around the compartment, and noticed the small cage tucked by Neville's feet.
"After I got on the train," said Neville, "I had him when I got here, and then I got on the train, and I checked again before I knocked on the compartment, and he was, he was-"
"Calm," said Harry. He watched the boy struggle to contain his emotions. Sherlock was right, they turned you into an absolute mess. "How did you arrive at the platform?"
"My gran. She apparated us here."
"And you're sure he was with you when you got on the train?"
"Yeah."
Harry stood, and a magnifying glass was in his hand. "We need to retrace your steps, right now."
Grabbing Neville by the arm, Harry hauled him from compartment. Hermione followed close behind.
As they moved, Harry pumped Neville for information. "Try to think. What car did you board first?"
"It...I think it was number seven."
Harry nodded and strode as fast as possible down the car, leaving the boy behind.
Hermione tapped Neville's shoulder, and he gave a small jump. "Come on!" she said. With a prod and push, she herded Neville in the direction Harry had gone.
The two arrived at car seven to behold an unusual sight. Harry was on his hands and knees, looking down the corridor. He craned his neck this way and that before suddenly stalked down the corridor, slunk low to the ground, and stopped halfway down the car. Bending to one knee, he his magnifying glass to bear.
There it was, small and nigh imperceptible. A tiny, amphibian foot print.
Harry scurried up and down the corridor, bent low to the ground. He spent some time near the car entrances, nodded, and approached Neville and Hermione.
"Good news, Neville. The tracks clearly indicate it's still somewhere in this car."
Hermione scoffed. "Tracks? Like footprints?"
"Exactly like footprints. And Neville's lucky he arrived so early. The floor here is ridiculously clean- probably magic, if I think about it- but the point is, clean enough to track a sticky-footed toad."
Hermione sputtered something, but Harry wasn't listening. He pushed Neville towards the front of the car. "Start checking the compartments, and remember to check under the seats. I'll meet you in the middle."
Harry flung open a compartment door, gave the room a brief glance, and moved on to the next.
Hermione watched this with arms crossed. She looked down the corridor at Neville. Every time he opened a door the boy would droop and glance towards them. If Harry was teasing poor Neville, she would not be happy. "Well," she said, "I don't see any tracks."
Harry rounded and pressed his magnifying glass into her hand. He pulled her wrist to the ground, forcing her to crouch.
"You would, if you just looked."
Hermione was about to give him a piece of her mind, Boy Who Lived or not, when she looked through the glass. Barely, just barely, saw three little circles of damp on the polished floor. She gaped at the mark until a joyous cry erupted from Neville, halfway down the corridor.
"Trevor!"
She and Harry rushed to the doorway of Neville's compartment. Inside was a very happy young boy, holding close the biggest toad either had ever seen.
-oOo-
Once again, the trio sat in their compartment. Neville still didn't speak, but somehow seemed less shy than before. Hermione was watching Harry suspiciously, as if he had somehow concocted the whole episode.
"So let me get this straight," she said, "You figured it out by the tracks?"
Harry grinned. "Simplicity itself, isn't it?"
Hermione glared. "No, it isn't! I could barely see the one you pointed out!"
"Actually-"
"And how could you search the corridor that fast? How did you know the frog didn't jump off the train?"
The more flustered Hermione became, the happier Harry seemed to grow. "Toad, actually. And if you'll recall, I spent time at the car entrances- and found no tracks. They were all localized in corridor's center."
She huffed. "Then why'd you need Neville to help look?"
Harry's voice was tinged with embarrassment. "Yes, well. I needed to cast my net, as it were, rather wide. I wasn't really trained to find toads, you know, and the tracks were a little confusing. Neville just helped speed things up."
"When you say 'trained'..."
"My dad taught me. He's always saying that there's is no branch of detective science so important and so neglected as the art of tracing footsteps."
Hermione frowned, and wondered what kind of parent would say something like that. Neville, on the other hand, hung onto Harry's words like they were gospel.
"Your dad's a detective?" Neville asked.
"Private consulting detective, actually."
"What kind of stuff did he teach you?"
"Several arts, including the footstep tracing. Mainly though, he taught me the power of observation, and the rational reasoning of said observations."
He turned to Hermione. "For instance, I observe you're a skeptic of the deductive arts."
She rolled her eyes. "How incredible. You've read me like a book."
"Not really. I only observe that you're a so-called muggle-born. That your family is fairly wealthy, but considerably less so than Neville's. That you're right handed, an academic, and nervous about how quills will impact your scholastic performance.
Hermione looked rather scandalized. "T-that's impossible!"
Harry grinned. "Clearly not. Your trunk and satchel are popular muggle brands, ergo, muggle-born. Your new robes are nicer than a professor's, but not of the highest quality, an example of which may be seen on Neville. This puts you upper middle-class, economically speaking."
"As for the academic angle," Harry continued, "You possess extensive knowledge of my infant exploits, knowledge which you could only glean from very recently purchased school books. This places you firmly in the land of academia. And of course any scholarly student would be wary of new mandatory writing instruments, so you practiced with a quill today. Unfortunately, you neglected to notice the ink which smudged upon your right robe cuff."
Harry sat back, trying and failing to look as innocent as possible, while Hermione examined said cuff. She glared at the offending stain, as if it had deliberately spilled her secrets.
Neville was gob-smacked. "That was wicked, Harry."
"On the contrary. It's elementary."