Chapter Five

An Army Salute

Sherlock's stomach grumbled. He clutched his angry belly, racking his brain for restaurants that both he and John would enjoy. "Shall we get a bite to eat?" he offered, trying to hide the rumble from John's ears.

"Good idea," Watson concluded. "Know any good places to eat?"

"Yes," Holmes shared, straightening his posture. "There's one just up the road."

Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor was a very kaleidoscopic and colorful shop, with bright shades of pink, purple, blue, and green all over the building. Tables with looped chairs were scattered among the outside, with matching pink umbrellas to block the boiling sun. Sherlock and John chose the table closest to the end of Diagon Alley, happily enjoying a banana split together. Their utensils clanged against the glass bowl every time one of them reached in to scoop up a spoonful of ice cream. They both seemed to be taking little amounts at a time to be polite and offer the other more, but it only made their snacking process slower.

"So, what do you think so far?" John swallowed his mouthful of chocolate ice cream and gazed at Sherlock.

"I think everything is fantastic!" he reported, and Sherlock was glad to see that John was already fond of the wizarding world.

"Can I see your wand? I want to examine it." John nodded and reached into his shopping bag, revealing his wand box from within. Sherlock's long fingers scanned the surface, wiping over the perfectly polished wood.

"It's certainly very sharp looking," he pronounced, placing it gently back into the box. He slid the bag with his foot back next to John's chair.

"Why don't we get our books next?" John suggested, looking at the longest section on his list. "I thought I saw a bookstore on our way here."

"Mycroft said we should buy our books from Flourish And Blotts. They reputably sell the best books. I believe it's…that way," he said, pointing just to the right of Ollivander's.

"Excuse me," John asked politely, tapping on a worker's shoulder. "Can you show me where I might find these books?" He presented the man with his list of supplies, and the adult automatically was aware of their condition.

"Ah, first years are you? Hogwarts? Right, The Standard Book Of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk. Follow me." The employee meandered them through countless rows of books, stacking more as they searched on, and the piles in the boys' hands became excessive in a short period of time.

"Do we have them all yet?" Sherlock complained, after the sixth book was placed in his tower.

"No," John told him. Sherlock looked annoyed, crossing and rolling his eyes roughly. "We still need Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling and The Dark Forces: A Guide To Self‒Protection."

"Let me get those for you," the employee offered, noting the pile of books at both pairs of feet.

"Would you?" John asked, relief in his tone. "Thank you very much."

"I think my arms are going to fall off," John whined, flopping onto the uneven bed back at The Leaky Cauldron."How do they expect us to walk around school with all these books?"

"I dunno. I suppose it's easy as pie for the older students." Sherlock was repacking his clothes for school since Mycroft had forced him too. He claimed there would be more room if Sherlock's trunk was neater.

"So, what do we still have to buy?" Sherlock asked, handling a blazer like it was a kitten and rolling it into a ball.

"Well, we still need our robes, both normal and dress robes, for what we don't know yet. We need our cauldrons and instruments used in potion making, and then we have the option of getting a pet."

"My parents said they were buying me an owl," Sherlock said from the opposite side of the room. "That's one more thing off my list. Tell you what," he said, throwing a pair of dress pants onto a chair and pointing at John, "I'll go get the cauldrons and things needed for Potions tomorrow while you go find yourself a pet. Then we can meet up later to get our robes fitted. Deal?"

"Deal," said Watson, leaping up from the bed. The blond paced the room a minor number of times before heading back to his dresser. He had stacked his books and wand on the tippy top of the piece of furniture and double checked to make sure he still had all of his supplies.

"Eww…" he heard Sherlock say over his shoulder, disgusted. "There's mold in this corner."

"That one there is a snowy owl. They're personally the most graceful owls in my opinion and are very loyal to their owners." A very good‒natured witch was showing John around Eeylops Owl Emporium, showing off the various breeds of owls and providing him with information. John didn't think a toad would become very friendly with him, and he wasn't very fond of cats. So, his only option remaining narrowed down to an owl. Besides, they had the most benefits for wizards of being a pet, including delivering the mail.

"What about that one?" John asked, pointing to a white and cream colored bird near the ceiling.

"That's a barn owl. One of the more graceful ones too." John's eyes seemed to be locked on the bird. Its big brown eyes were wandering all over the store and its feathers were stunning in the light's rays.

"That's a female, mind you," the witch interrupted, spying in the direction John was looking.

"I'll take her."

John handed over fourteen Galleons to the witch at the counter and left the emporium, his new owl in her cage clutched tightly under his arm. When he stepped outside the shop's front door, the eleven‒year‒old scooted to his right to check the time on his watch. 15:26. He squatted down, knowing that he had quite some time before he had to meet up with Sherlock again and stared deep into his owl's eyes. They were amber, and her feathers were soft and fluffy at the touch of his skin.

"What should I name you?" he asked her opinion, as her head twitched in all directions. "What would be a good name for you?" He pondered many names in his furrowed brain, throwing away ones that were too human‒like or sounded silly.

"Athiel," he resolved after a bit of time. "I'll call you Athiel. I know it's a bit strange, but it'll have to do." She hooted merrily and John stuck his finger into her cage. She nipped the end daintily, showing a sign that she already like him. Satisfied, John picked up Athiel's cage from the stone pathway and headed in the direction of Madam Malkin's. After he dodged in and out of the swarm of people, darting past a wizard holding an enormous cauldron, he reached his destination to find Sherlock already there waiting patiently for him. Two bags were at his feet, obviously containing their cauldrons and instruments for Potions.

"Nice bird you've got there," Holmes remarked, peering through the bars of the cage. Smooth feathers, small spots running down the spine, flexible claws, female…"What's her name?"

John wasn't even going to ask how he knew she was a female. "Athiel. I know, it might be random, but I couldn't think of anything else that I liked —"

"I didn't say I didn't like it…" Sherlock butted in, looking up at the slouching boy. John frowned and crossed his arms. "Come on," Sherlock whispered, squeezing the blond's upper arm. "Let's go get our robes fitted."

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock grumbled as a witch was measuring the length of his arm. She was about as round as a stick, and her hair had dark purple spikes in it.

"Wow, you're tall for eleven years old," she stated, stepping onto a stool to become eye level with him. "Five foot four," she told an enchanted quill, and it recorded his height onto a piece of parchment.

"This one is four foot ten and a half," recalled the other witch who was calculating the circumference of John's hips. He looked mortified and tried arching has back as far away as possible from the adult. "Hold still!" the witch yelled at him, and Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes at his clownish friend.

Sherlock glanced in the far left corner of the shop where a bright blonde‒haired witch sat scribbling notes behind a desk. No doubt the owner of the shop. Her lime green robes were flung over the back of her chair and her glasses were perched on the edge of her nose.

A threaded needle wove its way in and out of thin, airy fabric. It finished sewing a gap under the arm of the new robes and the spiky‒haired witch held them out before Sherlock. "Try these on." The brunette did as he was told, sliding his arms through the sleeves and feeling the silkiness of the cloth against his skin. He adjusted the clamp, fastening it together and checking to make sure it wasn't choking his throat. He felt the rim of the robes brush just above his ankle, and the sleeve cut off just above his hand.

"What do you think, Madam Malkin?" the purple‒haired witch fished for an opinion on Sherlock's new cloak.

"Those look wonderful, Cynthia," the Madam complimented.

"I need dress robes too," Sherlock pointed out, cutting into their conversation.

"So do I," came the audacious voice to Sherlock's left.

"You're not done yet!" John's witch was getting frustrated with him and she pushed him back onto the stool. "Put these on!" John gingerly pulled on his robes, eyeing the irritation on her face. The younger boy's uniform cut off slightly lower than Sherlock's and about a centimeter of the fabric covered his hands.

"That'll have to do," the witch concluded, shaking off and ignoring the extra bit of fabric covering John's palms.

"Ah! Dress robes. There's some in the back if you want to take a look. We have quite a variety. Just take a look and let us know which ones you'd like to purchase."

There were an endless number of rows lined with dress robes all hung up next to each other, and John followed Sherlock questionably behind while the brunette blurted out rude remarks.

"These are hideous!" Sherlock commented, sliding copper dress robes behind red ones so they were hidden from sight.

"Oh come on, Sherlock," John said, searching through smaller sizes. "They're not all that bad." He held up a bonnet knowing Sherlock would flip, just to make fun of him.

"Oh shut up, John."

"I suppose you want plain black ones then?"

"With maybe just a splash of color," Sherlock added, spotting the black robes at the end of the row. He sorted through the suits of different fabrics, testing them on his fingers for the right touch and all the while noting the hint of colors or the shape of the outfit.

"Those are yours," Sherlock said, pointing over his shoulder. John didn't have time to lift his head and glance in the proper direction to catch the gesture.

"Which ones?"

"Those." The navy blue cloak stood out among a group of rose pink dress robes, and the feel of the fabric felt smooth and yielding on John's nails. He knew those were the one's Holmes was referring to, because he would not be caught dead wearing pink formal clothes in public.

"It's not felt," John pointed out, "but it's not silk either…"

"Maybe it's just plain cotton." The deduction was obvious.

"I suppose so…" There was a trim of striking black starting from the base and stitched all the way up, curving around the collar. A matching blue tie was wrapped around the hook, and there was a layer of silver sparkling through the cloth.

"Why these ones?" John asked, and Sherlock turned to face him.

"Because they…match your eyes." There was a reference to embarrassment in his cheeks, and Sherlock turned away as he blushed. Watson took in his friend's suggestion in consideration and removed the hanger from the rack. He held the robes up so the collar covered his neck.

"What do you reckon?" he asked, indicating the gown to Sherlock.

"I think they'd suit you perfectly," he agreed, smiling. "I think I'll do these," he added, picking out a set of plain black dress robes with a forest green trim around the edge like John's. "I'm not sure about the black bow tie though —"

"Bow ties are cool," John enlightened him, slugging his best friend on the upper arm.

They waited patiently for their dress robes to be sewn to the right proportions and gathered up the many sets of robes they needed for school days. Then, they thanked Madam Malkin and headed back to The Leaky Cauldron, Sherlock carrying several bags and John hoisting up his owl cage every so often.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock urged him on, checking over his shoulder to make sure he kept up. Both of the Holmes brothers raced in front of him, pushing carts of their own. John tried to catch up with them, but his legs weren't long enough to travel as far of a distance as theirs could. The three boys dodged in and out of passing bodies, racing past columns built in the middle of the long platform.

King's Cross Station was packed as usual, with hundreds of people arriving from one train to hop onto another, or with business men preparing to leave for work at a specific company. John's trunk banged up and down on the cart he pushed in front of him, the initials J.W. engraved in blue on the cover. His owl hooted happily in her cage and watched the scene with her amber eyes while he sped on.

John came to an abrupt halt before nearly crashing his cart into Sherlock's legs. Mycroft towered in height over the two eleven‒year‒olds, and he gestured his head over to where a family of three stood. John had no hesitation before his feet carried him to where his family stood, leaving his cart abandoned next to the two Holmes siblings. What was waiting by his mum's side was a surprise he never thought he'd see.

"Dad!" He embraced his arms and his father knelt down to accept his hug, the low chuckle coming from his mouth. Several normal citizens nearby had stopped and were clapping for the reunion, seeing the love from a long time departed family relationship come back together again. One woman with her three‒year‒old son actually had tears in her eyes, while an older man pressed their hands to their hearts and watched John squeeze the life out of his returning father. It was such a delightful sight to see that even John thought Sherlock was happy and clapping for him. The man's Army uniform was newly washed and it smelled of fresh soap as John inhaled deeply through his nose over his shoulder. He felt his father run his fingers through his hair, and John reached over to plant a kiss on his cheek.

John let go so he could look at his dad properly. "Didn't think I'd skip sending you off to school, did you?" the parent asked in his usual deep, comforting voice. John had his hair, except the soldier's hair was much more untidy and had more streaks of brown mixed in it. His skin was very tan. Probably from being outside so much.

"You didn't retire just for me, did you?" John asked, hoping the answer was no.

And he was right. "No," the man laughed, "I think it was time to come back home anyways. I deserve to be here. And I would much rather be home with my family." His mother stroked her son's head and smiled down at the wizard. Harriet still looked cross with her brother, and John winked at her. She rolled her eyes, a usual reaction from a typical arrogant teenager.

"Here," John said, pulling out his cell phone and handing it to his dad. "I won't need it. I'll have to send mail the…magic way, you know." His father gave John a small smile, rose to his feet, and wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, checking the time on the train station clock, "we only have seven minutes left."

"Coming!" he shot back. "Right," he sighed, turning back to his supportive family. "I'll keep in touch. I promise. I love you." His mother and father both bent down to hug him at the same time, and John collected as much of the family warmth as he could. His father gave him the Army salute, and the smaller twin happily responded. Before heading back over to where Sherlock leaned on a column, John flicked two fingers off his forehead to Harriet, and she couldn't help but smirk back at her brother.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. The ticket says Platform 9 ¾, but there isn't one —"

"Yes there is," Sherlock corrected, indicating his head at the wall twenty feet away, between platforms nine and ten.

"You're…kidding me, right?"

"No, John," Mycroft interrupted, crossing his arms. "You run through that barrier and you'll be on the correct platform."

"But, we'll crash, won't we?" John's face looked scared.

"No we won't," Sherlock insured him. "Trust me." He squeezed John's wrist.

"If you insist," John concluded.

"Just follow me. Lead the way, Mycroft." The Slytherin looked thrilled that they were actually moving, and he ran straight at the brick wall without hunching up. When he should have slammed into it and crashed, instead he passed right through as if the wall wasn't there at all.

Sherlock went next. He pushed his cart in front of him and slightly narrowed his eyes as the wall became closer and closer. He too passed through without any trouble.

John hesitated, shook his head thinking what he was about to do was mental, and pushed his cart foot by foot towards the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut just before his cart was going to hit the barrier and expected the blow to come full on.

But there wasn't one. For a fraction of a second, the world went completely black around him, and then he found himself exit out from the other side of the wall. It looked as though he had simply walked around the brick wall between platforms nine and ten when in fact he'd passed straight through a solid wall.

He directed his cart to his right, and when he turned the corner, an enchanting sight greeted his view. A glistening scarlet and black train sat on the tracks, steam billowing and leaking from the pipes in the roof and under the wheels. Gold letters on the side of the engine read The Hogwarts Express. Hundreds of students roamed the platform, saying goodbye to their families or packing their belongings onto the train.

A small billboard was connected to the brick wall John had just flown out of. A clock was nailed in the exact center and the Hogwarts school logo was right above it. John smiled as he read the words. Platform 9 ¾.

"Come on," Sherlock voice echoed, disrupting John's fantasies. "Let's get on the train before all the compartments are taken."

They left their carts in a section on the platform where the rest were and worked their way through the crowd. It was difficult getting their trunks and owls onto their mode of transportation, but they managed to board the train after some difficulty.

Mycroft left them to deal with themselves, heading off towards the back of the train to meet with his few friends. Sherlock and John made their way down the halls of the compartments, finally reaching an empty room in the third train car.

"This will have to do," Sherlock said, opening the door. He threw his trunk onto the right bench and set his owl down in the corner closest to the glass window looking out into the hallway. He heaved his heavy trunk over his head, placing it on the rack above the benches bolted to the wall. John had some trouble and Sherlock saw him struggling.

"Want some help?" he offered.

"If you wouldn't mind…" John felt ashamed and backed away, hiding his hands behind his back. Sherlock lifted John's trunk easier than his own and placed it on the opposite rack. It helped that he had such height for his age.

"And with two minutes to spare," Sherlock smirked, glancing at the time on his watch. He settled himself on one of the green cushiony benches and rested his long legs on the seat next to him. John sat down across from his buddy and stared out the window. Kids were rushing to say farewells to their parents one final time before boarding the train.

Students of various ages passed their compartment, sometimes giving them looks because they were first years. Elizer, Sherlock's owl, nibbled noisily on a few owl pellets. John's owl had fallen asleep with her head under her wing, breathing evenly.

Somewhere in the station a muffled clock chimed eleven. The train suddenly gave a lurch forward, the carts behind it being dragged carelessly. The vehicle began to pick up speed gradually, and soon the faces of the waving parents became blurred shapes. The train turned a final corner, and evidently the station was lost from view.

The train sped along the country side, and the hills, valleys, and trees swept by sooner than you could observe all their details. The greens swirled together with the blue of the sky, and it was like a painting having water splashed onto it.

"You okay, John? You're awfully quiet…" Sherlock's voice came in a whisper, but there was still that sweet hint of sadness.

"Yeah." John curled his knees up to his chest, twirling his Pocket Sneakoscope in his hand. "Just thinking about the sorting ceremony."

Sherlock snorted and couldn't help but laugh at his friend. "Relax," he comforted, "we still have a few hours."

"Well, I know I'm not a Ravenclaw. I don't have the brains. You are though."

"We'll see about that," Sherlock questioned, debating whether he would be sorted as a silver serpent or a bronze eagle.

"I don't know. I guess I just want a good adventure this year, you know? Our first big one together."

Sherlock smiled again, spinning his wand in between his fingers so it released small sparks. All he replied was, "Typical Gryffindor you are."