TWLTS

Chapter 2

Sherlock sat down at breakfast in the Great Hall the next morning, poking at his eggs with a fork. He usually didn't bother coming down for breakfast (why should he, when that could just be an extra half an hour spent sleeping?), but as it was the first official day of the first term, he had to pick up his schedule.

He sighed with boredom as Professor Flitwick handed him his paper. The classes should be a bit more interesting this year compared to the last, but they still wouldn't be a challenge for him. After Christmas break the previous year, at the start of the second term, he had talked with Professor Flitwick about taking his O.W.L.s a year early, so he could skip to his sixth year.

While he had been in agreement with Sherlock that he shouldn't have a problem passing the exams themselves, he thought it would be better for Sherlock to continue along at the usual pace-skipping ahead would mean missing a whole year's worth of new spells, which could lead to difficulties later on.

Sherlock assured him that he would purchase the books and learn them over the summer, but he also said that upon leaving Hogwarts, he would have difficulty finding a decent job as the ministry hired wizards and witches who were at the very least seventeen, and preferred eighteen.

However, Sherlock had studied the fifth year textbooks vigorously over the summer, and had even purchased the sixth years ones in case Professor Flitwick changed his mind. In any case, they would be a good resource to have.

Monday was Sherlock's lightest day by far-he had double potions, a period off, and then Charms. The rest of the afternoon he expected he would need for studying and homework. He remembered in the past watching fifth years work until the small hours of the night to complete their assignments. Even though it was the beginning of the year, he expected professors would already be stressing the importance of their O. .

The Ravenclaws had Charms with the Hufflepuffs, which was not unusual, but it surprised Sherlock to see that for Potions they were paired with the Gryffindors. The way the schedules had worked out, Sherlock had not personally had a class with the Gryffindors since second year-Transfiguration. Apparently the two houses had continually had Divination together, but Sherlock had opted out of taking that class, believing it to be a waste of time. Instead, he had filled the time slot with Ancient Runes, a class that was still on his schedule, but not until Wednesday.

Looking down at his watch, he saw he had approximately half an hour until he had to be down in the dungeons. Back at the common room, he shoved his potions book, notebook, quill and ink into his bag, grabbed his ingredients kit, straightened his blue and bronze tie, and set off.

It was about a fifteen minute walk from Ravenclaw tower down to the Dungeons, so he arrived with only five minutes to spare. He was however, one of the first few there; there were only a couple of Gryffindors he only vaguely recognized, who must have come straight from lunch. As far as Sherlock knew, Gryffindor tower was even farther than the Ravenclaw one.

Once most of the class had congregated outside of the classroom door, Professor Slughorn opened the door dramatically from within.

"Welcome, welcome!" He exclaimed in his booming voice. "Take your seats, why don't you, and pull out your cauldrons while you're at it!"

He beamed at Sherlock as he took his seat at an empty table; Over the years, Sherlock had received a multitude of fancy invitations, welcoming him to some of Slughorn's evening parties, to which only the famous, talented, and popular were welcomed. Sherlock, however, preferring to avoid much social interaction, had only gone to one or two, and tended to come up with excuses for the rest.

"Welcome, welcome," he said again, planting his portly self at the front of the room. "I hope you all had a spectacular summer. Now, I'm sure you'll get tired of hearing this soon, but you all have some very important exams to look forward to come the spring. So I expect you to all put forward your best effort."

"Er-can I join you?" came a whisper from Sherlock's left.

Looking over, he saw a boy with messy, dark blonde hair looking at him rather timidly. Sherlock recognized him from passing, but couldn't recall ever having a proper conversation with the boy.

Looking him up and down for a moment, Sherlock shrugged. "You don't have any friends?"

The boy slightly recoiled. "Er, I do, but, well-there isn't enough room, it's a rather full class."

Sherlock looked around the room properly for the first time, and noticed with a hint of surprise that it was true-there were hardly any empty seats, save for Sherlock's table which people had avoided.

In his first year, once people had realized his intelligence, they gathered around him like a pack in all of his classes, hoping for tips or assistance, maybe even that Sherlock would let them copy his work. They soon learned this was not the case when he blatantly ignored them or snapped at them rudely if they bothered him while he was working. Not too many people were inclined to sit in close proximity to him after that, as if he would lash out if they came to close, like a wounded animal-which was, of course, ridiculous.

"Help yourself, it doesn't bother me," he said emotionlessly, turning his attention back to Professor Slughorn, who seemed to be finishing up a dramatic speech.

"-and so, I look forward to seeing what you produce for me today!"

Sherlock flipped open his book, set a fire under his cauldron, and opened his ingredients kit.

"Er," the boy began timidly again.

"If you have something to say, just say it," Sherlock spat. "You're just wasting your breath."

"Uh, I mean, right. What exactly are we supposed to be brewing?"

"Essence of Euphoria."

"You hear him?"

"No, I saw his lesson plan when I walked in."

The other boy smirked, and opened his book as well. Sherlock focused on his own potion, occasionally deviating from the instructions where he saw fit-over the years, he had picked up on a few sleights of hand.

After about half an hour of stirring, adding in ingredients, and adjusting the heat, Sherlock set his potion to simmer for 40 minutes.

Leaning back in his chair, he was about to reach into his bag to pull out a book to pass the time when he noticed an acrid smell tainting the air. Coughing slightly, he looked over to see copious amounts of thick smoke billowing from the other boy's cauldron.

"John, I think you added a few too many gurdyroots," he observed.

"Tell me about it-wait. How did you know my name?" He seemed surprised. They always did. But that surprise would soon turn to annoyance and dislike, people thinking he was nosy and intrusive when he simply just saw.

"I didn't know. I noticed."

"Come again?"

"You wrote your name on the inside of your textbook-I saw when you flipped it over. John Watson, correct?"

"Yeah, actually. You have good eyes."

"I have normal eyes. Everyone else is just too blinded by trivial matters to see important things."

"Right." He seemed perplexed now. Perhaps Sherlock had offended him.

"Don't worry, it's not just you," he assured John. "Most people are idiots. Although, I must say that not too many people are quite as atrocious at potions as you are."

John stood there with his mouth open while his potion continued to emit ludicrous amounts of foul-smelling smoke.

"Well, do something about it before you stink up the whole dungeon. It's humid enough down here."

"I don't know how to fix it. I put in too many gurdyroots, and I stirred it too many times. I can't undo that."

"Ah, the stirring. I knew there must be something else."

"Sure you did."

"I did." Sherlock examined the instructions for a moment, before tossing a couple of flowerheads into John's potion, and adding a few counterclockwise stirs. "Let it simmer for five minutes, and then continue where you left off and the damage should be minimal. And make sure to follow the instructions this time."

John stared at him for a minute, but Sherlock didn't notice as his face was already buried in the book that he could have started reading five minutes ago.

At the end of the class, Sherlock's potion was by far the best-it was perfect. "Merlin's beard, m'boy!" Slughorn exclaimed in his booming voice. "You've outdone yourself yet again!"

He was rather impressed with John's potion as well, which was as good as it could have been, all things considered.

After cleaning up, Sherlock swung his bag over his shoulder, looking forward to his period off. He could read most of his book, as Slughorn was in such a good mood that he had decided not to give them any homework.

As he headed towards the door, Slughorn stopped him. "Sherlock, m'boy! I'm working on having my first dinner party of the year, and it's crucial that you attend! Surely you aren't so busy this early that your schedule is full?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock shook his head. "It's completely empty."

"Well then, I'll send you an invitation when I have a date, why don't I?"

"Yes, Professor."

"Look smart, John!" Slughorn called over his shoulder, and only then did Sherlock realize that John was still in the room, taking an excruciatingly long time to finish putting away his ingredients. At Slughorn's call, he shoved the rest unceremoniously into the case, and slipped off of his chair.

Sherlock was halfway up the stairs to the second floor when John caught up with him, panting. "I never caught your name."

"Why do you care?"

"Well you know mine, so it seems only fair."

"I know because I figured it out. You could easily do the same-ask practically anyone in our year, or anyone in Ravenclaw. They can tell you."

"Maybe I want to hear it from you."

Sherlock paused outside one of his favorite shortcuts, gave him an appraising look, examining up and down. John made Sherlock feel a bit differently than he did most of the time, but he couldn't quite place how.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes," he said. He gave John a wink, and then slipped behind the tapestry and out of sight.

It wasn't until the end of the day, when Sherlock was sitting in his favorite armchair in front of the common room fire that it struck him-when he was talking with John, that horrible aching loneliness he often forgot was there subsided for a while, and became almost bearable.