John ran his thumb along the red wax seal, which was now long broken, smoothing the contours together again so the unity of the design as restored—a lion, a badger, an eagle, and a serpent united around the letter H. Hogwarts. He slid the thick parchment out from the envelope yet another time, now simply to admire the emerald ink in which his name was printed at the top. Reading the letter was unnecessary at this point, he knew the entire message by heart, just as so many other Hogwarts students had at age eleven. He was really going, it was the dream he'd been waiting for ever since his parents began to tell him stories about the school as a toddler.

Stretching out his arms behind him, John relaxed backward on his bed, smiling serenely up at the ceiling. The steady thumping of the Weird Sisters from Harry's room next door suddenly subsided, and his bedroom seemed much calmer, much more quiet. Yes, nothing could disrupt this feeling of contentedness, nothing...except the tone in his mother's voice, now audible from the kitchen downstairs in the absence of Harry's drums and bagpipes.

John frowned, getting up from his bed to move closer to the door. She sounded anxious, uncertain.

"But really, I can't help by wonder if it'll be safe for them there?" she said.

John's father's voice responded, calm and measured. "Abigail, there is no safer place. Hogwarts has Dumbledore, and whenever there have been threats to the school there's been talk of them shutting it down. No one's saying that now, which means the school governors must be sure the students will be safe, or as safe as anyone can be anymore."

"But I don't like having them away, not with so many Death Eaters everywhere, and John's so young...it'll be his first year..."

"And he's dreamed of this for how long? What else are we going to do? We can't keep him at home, Hogwarts is probably safer with Dumbledore."

"I'd just rather have them near me...," John's mother trailed off, sounding insecure.

"Abigail, think," said his dad's voice gently. "How often are we home? The Auror office keeps us so busy, and we have to be out there fighting. Having Harry and John home isn't going to keep them any safer from You-Know-Who or the Death Eaters, it's only going to scare them. And we have their educations to think about. And I know he's more powerful than ever now, but we've raised them just as we always would have for the past eleven years."

"They're still just children." The sentence was barely loud enough for John to make out.

"Exactly. This is still part of their childhood, let them have it."

There was silence, and John wondered if Harry had heard any of that from next door. The sound of his father's voice was heard saying something indistinct a moment later, but John's head was buzzing too loudly for him to listen. Not going to Hogwarts? Would they really consider not letting him, when he'd just gotten his letter today? John could hardly imagine that You-Know-Who could be so powerful so as to make his mother think he shouldn't go to school...

But it won't happen, he reassured himself. No, his dad had calmed his mum down. It would all be fine, and in nearly a month he'd be on the Hogwarts Express, puffing along the English and Scottish countryside to that hallowed school. Where there were trick stairs and ghosts, and Quidditch matches and Charms classes, and warm common rooms with soft chairs and blankets in winter, and sunlit grounds to run around in spring, and tables laid full of desserts and pumpkin juice at the end of the day, and everything else Harry had told him about when she had come home for Christmas after her very first term, an excited eleven-year-old full of stories for her six-year-old brother.

John leaned out of the window as far as he could go, waving to his parents emphatically, no fear in the giant grin on his face. Soon, however, the scarlet steam engine had pulled out of the station, and he could see them no longer. He turned, ready to find a seat with his big sister.

"Har—?" He blinked. Harry wasn't standing there anymore, and it took John a full moment to realize she must have already headed off with her friends. Slightly hurt, he heaved at his trunk, realizing he'd have to find a place to sit on his own. He looked into the compartments on either side of him, but they were both full, full of very loud, much older students. A few more tentative steps down the hall showed him that the next two were full, too, and a few more revealed yet more train compartments void of vacancies. Starting o feel worried now, John dragged his trunk onward. Peering into the next compartment, he saw a girl his age with a light brown ponytail pause in talking to the boy across from her and look up at him. He smiled a bit shiftily at her, and she got up from her seat and slid the glass door open.

"Hi," she said. "Do you need a place to sit? You can come in with us."

"Thank you," said John, relieved, and he followed her in. With the help of the girl and the two other boys sitting in the compartment, he managed to lift his trunk up onto the rack with the others' things.

"I'm Sarah," said the girl.

"I'm John," he answered, sitting down across from her.

"Mike," said the boy next to him.

"I'm Yasha. That's my owl," said the last boy proudly, nodding at the eagle owl sitting regally in a cage with the luggage.

"Cool," said John. "My older sister has one, but I didn't get my own, I'm just supposed to share with her."

"What house do you think you'll be in, John?" asked Sarah eagerly. "We were all just talking about it."

John smiled a little awkwardly, but he didn't feel awkward, not at all as he began to talk with these other first years about the houses. Gryffindor, he told them. His family had been a mix, but he was sure that's where he'd belong.

Sherlock Holmes was very different from the other first years amassed outside the Great Hall, guarded by Hagrid's immense figure as they awaited Professor McGonagall, though you wouldn't have been able to tell from merely observing him-unless you happened to be him, with exceptional powers of observation to the verge of impossibility for someone of such a young age, in which case such observing would have been unnecessary. Yes, he was perhaps skinny for his age, perhaps giving off the air of being more agile than his peers, and his hair made his head among the darkest and most tousled of those towered over by Hagrid there. Sherlock Holmes was just as frightened as the other new students, and his knees were just as likely to buckle, his shoulders just as likely to shake, though the castle's air was still warm with the end of summer reaching its fingers into the halls. The true difference lay in his thoughts, which were astronomically different from those of the other children around him. While most of them were concentrated on the fact that they were feeling a bit queasy at the moment, Sherlock (who hadn't eaten anything for lunch) was calming himself by making deductions about the people and objects around him.

Cleaned manually, he remarked to himself with regards to the ceiling, floor, and picture frames around him. Even though they could use magic. The artist was low on funds when he painted that witch, borrowing paints from a friend...the paint itself is of perfect quality for that time period, but it was clearly applied with an old brush, one he would otherwise have replaced, and the panel isn't of the same thickness as those hung near it, not meant for art...

How do you know the painter was a he, Sherlock? says the voice of his older brother Mycroft in his head. Don't make assumptions, you must have proof that shows overwhelming probability, the voice sneers, challenging him to be more thorough.

The way he's painted the woman's body, Sherlock answers. It clearly shows knowledge of the human form, but it is slightly unrealistic, especially in the hips and waist, a woman would have be familiar enough with her own shape to paint it more accurately. Also, the clear idealization.

That's not enough, says Mycroft, a woman may have wanted to flatter herself, and Sherlock sighs inwardly, a sigh that sounds solid and unruffled by nerves inside his head.

Also the height. The painting must have been done by someone of a much taller height that what would have been typical for a woman in this time period in Europe, and they didn't stand on a block or a ladder, the angle they viewed the subject from would have changed, and therefore the lighting slightly. The painting doesn't show any inconsistencies in lighting, it was all painted from the same level.

Sherlock can't imagine that Mycroft would have any more complaints about his argument, so he moved on to observe his peers more closely.

That's boy's half-blood. The mother is a muggle, wizard father, they both saw him off on the platform, even though his mother is thinking of leaving his father...he is completely unaware, of course. Ate three chocolate frogs on the train here, and kept all the cards. Most certainly bound for Hufflepuff...

Sherlock's insides went cold. The Sorting. Ever since Mycroft had gotten the letter and promptly been marched off the Slytherin, Sherlock had fantasized about what house he'd go to. Many of the famous wizards and witches he'd read about at first had all been from Gryffindor, but he was sure that was mainly due to historical bias, and as he read more thoroughly about the Wizarding World as he got older, he began to see more and more names hailing from Ravenclaw. That, of course, would be his chosen house, if such a thing could be chosen...he didn't want to, but too often Sherlock had imagined what it would feel like if all Mycroft's snide insults were proven true, if he really was the idiot he'd always said he was...and Mycroft himself didn't even get chosen for Ravenclaw, and he saw things Sherlock never caught and could understand everything so much faster than he did. Sherlock looked around at the other faces near him, for a different reason this time, wondering how many of them would be taken by Ravenclaw and how smart they must be...

"Ah, yes, thank you, Hagrid," said a brisk voice above the silence of terrified first years, and Sherlock looked up to see a witch with a tall and pointed, emerald-green hat had appeared, talking to the half-giant man who had brought them there with the boats across the lake, the one the Merpeople had seemed to respect more than other wizards, judging by the different shapes he had seen in the water over the edge of the boat and their behavior.

After a brief word to her, the man named Hagrid turned and pulled open the large door the Great Hall, disappearing inside. There was quiet murmur of talk as all the first years craned their neck to get a glimpse of it around his turned back, but silence fell again as the witch surveyed them.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said to the small crowd. "I am about to lead you into the Great Hall, where the start of term banquet will soon begin. Before you may take your seats, however, and the feast commence, you must be Sorted into your houses. There are four houses at Hogwarts: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Students are selected for each house based on certain traits they possess, and being chosen for any of the houses represents a great honor. While you are here at Hogwarts, your house will be something like your family. You will eat at your house table, sleep in the house dormitory, and earn house points for your achievements throughout the school year."

She gazed at all of their nervous, apprehensive faces. Some, Sherlock could tell, had been waiting for their Sorting for years, just as he had—others seemed to have no idea what was in store. He wondered how surprised they would be when they realized all they had to do was try on a hat.

"Now," said the witch, who Sherlock just realized had yet to introduce herself, "If you would please form a line, and follow me." With a flourish of her wand, the doors slid open majestically, and Sherlock melded into a line with the other first years to follow her inside the Great Hall.

It seemed larger to him than it had in books, more imposing and impressive, but warm and inviting too...it was, however, filled with people, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel that tonight was going to be an extremely difficult night on which to remain anonymous.

They followed the witch in the emerald hat to the end of the hall, which seemed, at least to the anxious new arrivals, to go on for twice the length of the lake. Finally, they all halted in front of the witch, who had picked up a long roll of parchment from a stool on which the Sorting Hat was perched.

Most of the students were looking at the witch expectantly, but it was the hat that spoke first, a mouth appearing as it burst into song. Sherlock, however, had little interest in the song, and instead began to look around the hall more carefully. Within a few moments, his eyes had found Dumbledore, who was seated at the very middle of the table in a rather regal chair, wearing magnificent robes of deep purple and silver thread that fell to the floor. Sherlock stared at him curiously and unabashedly, noticing that he had been away from the school for well over a month until a few hours ago, obviously something to do with the fight against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And some sort of secret organization was involved...but no, there was more to that...this man had secrets, several that he had never told anyone, and one that...hm, interesting.

Dumbledore abruptly made eye contact with Sherlock, and Sherlock was taken aback by the piercing, deconstructing gaze of his bright blue eyes. But, somehow, it was not unkind, and Dumbledore gave him a half-smile from the table up above him, seemingly not at all perturbed by Sherlock's staring.

"When I call you name—" Sherlock jerked his attention back as the witch addressed them again, now that the hat was obviously done with its song, "—please come to the front and sit down on the stool. You will try on the hat, and then you will be sorted into your house.

"Banks, Harvey."

Harvey Banks made his way to the front, and tentatively sat down on the stool. The witch placed the hat on his head, and within a few moments it shouted out "Slytherin!"

Sherlock's gut clenched. Was he going to Slytherin? Surely not Hufflepuff. Oh, no, he was most certainly headed for Hufflepuff. No other house would take him, and wasn't Hufflepuff the one for the extras? Mycroft was always first to remind him how slow he was, how cowardly and sniveling a child, how he would never hold up in Slytherin.

"Bletchley, Eileen."

Eileen Bletchley, who was perhaps one of the palest of the terrified students gathered there, stumbled up to the front, and the hat was placed on her head. "Ravenclaw!" it cried.

The first Ravenclaw, only two in. Sherlock stared at her with sudden interest as she hurried off to the table that was applauding her loudly, but for once he couldn't deduce anything at all. Was he that scared? So scared he wasn't thinking straight? Surely not, he thought to himself, though his thoughts began to panic as it occurred to him. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and tried to calm himself again, make himself just as calm as he had been in the entrance hall. Blocking out everything around him, he missed the next several people to be sorted.

"Griffin, Jack."

Jack Griffin was proclaimed a Slytherin, and Sherlock suddenly came back to himself and realized that his name must be coming soon.

"Hassan, Ceylan."

Sherlock missed what house Ceylan Hassan was sorted into, but his own named reached his ears clearly enough.

"Holmes, Sherlock."

Immediately Sherlock registered the slight groan that seemed to come from a few students; apparently Mycroft was (unsurprisingly) unpopular, and a few of had made the connection between their last names and the oddness of their first ones. As he walked to the stool in front, however, his gait was quite steady, and he was calm enough have emotion left over to even feel a bit foolish as the gigantic hat fell over his ears.

"Hmm," said a small voice, one that Sherlock was sure was near enough to only his ears to be heard. "Oh, well, there's certainly a clear choice here, but I can see traces of all the houses in you...yes, certainly..."

Sherlock wasn't sure what to think of that. Was he going to be a hatstall?

The hat was silent for several moments, evidently preferring to keep its thoughts to itself rather than voice them. It could hardly have been a few seconds, but to Sherlock it seemed to take all the time it had taken to cross the Great Hall and the lake before the hat shouted

"RAVENCLAW!"

Sherlock beamed, but quickly hid it in embarrassment, returning the hat to the presiding witch and guided to his proper table by the cheers of his fellow Ravenclaws. Once he had sat down and exhaled shakily, he looked up, scanning the Slytherin table for Mycroft. He'd found him soon enough, just as the next name, Jennings, Sabrina, was called. Sitting erect, the Head Boy badge flashing in the candlelight, there was something akin to a smirk on Mycroft's lips as he looked over at Sherlock lazily. His younger brother returned the look with one of defiance, then started as Sabrina Jennings sat down next to him, evidently having just been sorted into Ravenclaw as well.

The rest of the Sorting passed by with Sherlock drifting in and out of attention, occasionally registering where another of his fellow students had been placed, but mostly captivated by his own thoughts. A Ravenclaw, he'd been made a Ravenclaw...apparently he was cut out for this school after all, and apparently the hat thought he would fit in with the other students selected for their intelligence. Sherlock didn't know if he'd ever felt that much pride swell within him before.

Soon there was only a handfull of people left to be sorted. Sherlock stared at the small group, a girl with dark brown hair and eyes who was chewing on her bottom lip, a blond boy who seemed both nervous and excited, and a boy whose hair was just as dark as Sherlock's, but a good deal neater.

Sherlock half-listened as "Watson, John" was proclaimed a Gryffindor, "Wong, Terry," went to Hufflepuff, and the Sorting concluded with "Zayn, Janine," going to Slytherin. He was ready for the school to get this tedious eating bit out of the way so that he could start exploring the castle.

"Welcome, welcome all of you to Hogwarts!" Sherlock looked up to see that Dumbledore had now stood, his arms spread wide as he addressed the school. "To the newest additions to our family—congratulations, and welcome! To all the old faces-welcome back. We're about the start the term with our standard banquet, but before the food distracts us too much, I do have a few words to say."

Suddenly the headmaster's tone was much graver, and he viewed them all somberly, but not ungently, from over the edges of his half-moon spectacles.

"As all of you know, Lord Voldemort's forces are gaining yet more power."

There was a collective gasp from everyone there at the sound of the name, but Dumbledore continued on.

"The Dark Lord's regime has been gaining strength, and outside the gates of Hogwarts, I am sorry to say that his threat challenges our world like no dark force ever has before. Of course, we have all lived with this knowledge for years now. Voldemort's rise to power was gradual, insidious, but it now has taken a firm hold over the country." He paused, letting his words sink in. "It is imperative that our ties together at this school remain strong, just as it is necessary they remain so between all witches and wizards outside these walls. Manipulation, uncertainty, suspicion and mistrust, this is how Voldemort operates. These are things we can fight, however, if we unite even more powerfully through friendship, trust, caring, and love. Our new students have just been divided up by qualities all equally valuable...bravery, intelligence, loyalty, and shrewdness and confidence...these are virtues I am sure that all of us possess, we simply must find them within ourselves.

"Times may seem dark throughout this year. It is my sincere hope, and ever my goal, however that Lord Voldemort's reign soon be at its end. Whenever you are frightened or in some way hurt by his doings, I urge each and every one of you to look for and find these qualities within yourselves, and to reach out to your classmates and teachers for support, friendship, and love to carry you through these troubled times.

"Perhaps this was a bit long-winded for me to say to before our feast, but I suspected that some of you may have needed those words, especially after we have all spent a summer apart." Dumbledore's gaze was just as piercing as it had been when Sherlock had met it just before his Sorting, but now the young boy felt as if it were directed towards everyone in the hall, scanning them all both collectively and individually. "What I ask of you is not impossible or radical...indeed, I believe it to be the natural instinct of all people. Don't try to face someone like Voldemort alone. The greatest strength will come from what we can give each other, it is the shared strength of love."

Dumbledore clasped his hands in front of his long, silver beard, looking down at all of them with a kindly smile curving out from under his moustache. After a lengthy pause, he continued. "And now, I am not to deprive you of the wonderful food that I know has been prepared. Please, tuck in."

As he said it, the plates in front of them filled with food, huge assortments of a whole manner of things Sherlock had never had access to all at once before. He wasn't very interested in eating at the moment, however. Sherlock was thinking over the headmaster's words, wondering what he thought of them. It seemed awfully optimistic to him, and he rather thought that Dumbledore had overestimated the students as he watched them quickly forget what they had just been told and turn to the food. Chatter started up all around Sherlock immediately, and he tuned out once more as he began to watch the people around the hall. Dumbledore had immediately been pulled into conversation by the witch who had conducted the Sorting, leaning in closely to talk to her, his own plate remaining bare. Sherlock rested his head on a hand a gazed around the hall absently. This school...Sherlock didn't know what he'd stepped into, but it had to be better than what he was leaving behind.

Author's Note: So...I've decided to have a go at this, Sherlock and John at Hogwarts. The next chapter has pretty much been written, so it'll probably be up soon, but unfortunately after that I can make no promises for update frequency. I've written two other Sherlock/Harry Potter crossovers, but those aren't set in the same universe as this (just so you know). Reviews are lovely!