John looked down at his match a bit dolefully, but his lack of success with their current Transfiguration lesson wasn't enough to dampen his spirits. Professor McGonagall, the decorous witch who had greeted them at the Entrance Hall and conducted the Sorting, had given each of the Gryffindor first years a match from a small box on her desk and then set them the task of transfiguring it into a needle, after a short demonstration. John hadn't quite gotten the hang of the spell yet, but he had managed to convince himself that his match was looking a bit paler, perhaps closer to silver in color, even if the tip was just as blunt and rough. A few of the other first years seemed to have been able to make minor changes to their matches, but Professor McGonagall had yet to offer anyone praise.
"Come on, Nearly-Headless Nick told me how to get into the kitchens!" he whispered to Sarah excitedly once the lesson had ended and they were out in the wide castle halls again, coming up behind her with his bag slung haphazardly across one shoulder. Of the other first years John had met on the train, Sarah had been the only other one to be Sorted into Gryffindor as well, and therefore in his Transfiguration class.
"The kitchens? Isn't lunch after Charms?" she asked.
"Yeah, but we don't need to get food or anything, I just want to look around."
"Are students even allowed in there?"
"Where's your sense of adventure, Sarah?" he asked playfully, leading her down the hall in the opposite direction of the Charms wing. John could catch her smile out of the corner of his eye.
"There's apparently this painting of fruit, and if you tickle the pear, you can get in," he said over his shoulder.
"Tickle the pear?" laughed Sarah.
"Why not?" he asked her. He could imagine the way she was shaking her head with eyes on the floor and a slight lift to her lips without turning around.
Nearly-Headless Nick had said that it off a passageway near the Great Hall, down a hallway that lead away from the path you would take to the Gryffindor common room. When John had imagined the layout, however, it had been on a somewhat smaller scale from the reality of Hogwarts, as he was still not used to such vast, elaborate buildings.
"So if you pass the Great Hall…," he muttered to himself as he did so, "and then go like you're going to our common room…." He led Sarah to the left, walking towards the marble staircase, trying to mask the uncertainty that was suddenly creeping in. He took a right, but he could tell that Sarah was starting to suspect him of not knowing entirely where he was going.
They were walking down a hallway just off the main corridor where a few students were transitioning to the next class, John trying to get far enough in front of Sarah so that he could see what was at the end without her realizing he was actually scouting out areas he had never been in before. Suddenly, his breath caught and pulse spiked as he spotted a pair of lamp-like, yellow eyes peering at him from a corner.
"It's Mrs. Norris!" he hissed to Sarah. "Back, back, back!"
She didn't need telling twice. Within their first week, all the first years had been quick to learn that you never want to be found alone with Mrs. Norris in a part of the castle you haven't been before, especially if that first person to find you is Filch (which it always is).
The two of them scrambled back the way they had come, and started to ascend the marble staircases, knowing that would be how to be taken the most quickly and farthest away from the caretaker's cat's luminous eyes.
"John, where are we going?" asked Sarah after they had moved onto a third staircase, which had just detached itself from the landing and was gliding along towards the opposite side of the hall.
"Just away from Mrs. Norris," he replied.
"Don't you think you're being a bit extreme? I think we can at least go in the same direction of our next class. We don't need to get that far away from her."
"A flight?" asked a voice with a gasp, and the two of them turned, having just stepped onto the landing. They were standing across from a stone wall with several gold-framed paintings, but the oddest and most out-of-place of their occupants appeared to have been the one to just interject. He was a rather short, entirely armor-clad knight brandishing a sword that was more like a dagger, standing in stark contrast against the ballerinas in different shades of blue as if he had just strode in from a neighboring stretch of canvass. "Is this cowardice true? Do you young rogues flee from another rather than stand and fight?" he demanded.
"Er," said John.
"Actually, we were just trying to find the kitchens," said Sarah quickly.
"The kitchens? But I know of just the place for such culinary needs!" cried the knight, jumping erect with pleasure. "Follow me, and I shall aid you in your quest!"
With not much more than raised eyebrows in eachother's directions, the two Gryffindors followed the squat knight as he took off through the paintings lining the hallway, several of which's subjects grumbled in protest as he passed.
The knight was moving fairly fast for one who was wearing such bulky armor, as John was reminded by the constant clanking as they ran after him. Through hallways lit by bracketed torches, past a drifting, morose looking ghost of a young woman with long and flowing translucent hair, around corners where one tapestry ended and another began, and threading around the other students walking leisurely to class, John and Sarah followed him. After a few minutes of jogging they had coming to more stairs that John didn't think he'd ever seen before.
John was in front, alongside the knight and taking the steps two at a time, when suddenly he felt a powerful, sucking feeling engulf his left leg and his body lost balance. With a yelp of surprise, he was caught dead in his tracks, and only managed to stop himself falling over onto his face by windmilling his arms wildly. He looked down: his entire calf had sunk a foot down into a trick step on the staircase.
"Why do you tarry? We have yet to reach our gloried goal!" proclaimed the knight, leaning around the frame of a scene of the Amazon jungle with half his body already in the next painting.
"I…don't really think I can move immediately," said John, looking down at his leg as the base of his neck bloomed pink with embarrassment. Several of the older students who were climbing the staircases snickered, and Sarah covered her mouth with a hand to hide her giggles.
John was torn between embarrassment, irritation, and the uncomfortableness having half a leg stuck in a stone stair step causes. "How about we find the kitchens another time?" he asked.
A few hours later, a slight boy with dark curls walked briskly down the same stairs, jumping the trick step without any conscious thought. He had already mapped this part of the school in head, just as thoroughly as the architect would have drawn up the plans, perhaps even more so. A complex system of classrooms, corridors, and enchantments was being constructed in his brain to mirror the school's, and he had decided to use it as what he called a "mind palace." By associating information with a known place inside his mind, he could organize thoughts and make connections, ideally so that he would never forget anything he needed. It was a new project for him, but Sherlock had been thinking about the idea for some time, and now seemed the best opportunity he may meet in a while to create a mind palace, since he could use the layout of Hogwarts as a blueprint as he learned it.
At this particular moment, which was a time of evening past all class times but before students were required to adhere to curfew, Sherlock was in a towering mood. He often wandered out of the Ravenclaw common room or simply didn't return from the rest of the castle or grounds because there was more use in being somewhere else; however, this time he had left with a purpose. For his first few weeks at Hogwarts, Sherlock had mostly been exploring the school and learning all its ins and outs, finding out where to hide and where no other students would be, what enchantments to avoid and which could be useful later on, what was interesting and what was dull. He had already visited all the major destinations, such as the four house common rooms (even though he hadn't been inside them all), the library, the Owlery, the kitchens, and Dumbledore's office (this too he had just observed from the outside, however), but he hadn't completely explored the entire castle.
Sherlock glared at the first person he saw without even realizing he was doing it. He had been trying not to think about why he was so angry, but in trying not the think about it he had merely brought all the realizations that had been building up over the past days to the forefront of his mind. The other Ravenclaws…he had been so proud to be sorted into that house, convinced that everyone else there would be brilliant, a house of people like Mycroft to look up to and learn from—Sherlock glowered. Mycroft. He vaulted himself over the stone railing at the end of the staircase and landed on the next just as it departed from the landing, and heard someone behind him call out. He didn't turn, though, just kept walking.
Past the Great Hall, Sherlock headed down a staircase leading downwards and into the dungeons through a torch-lit archway. Just a few moments later, he had passed the potions classroom and was standing outside the entrance to the Slytherin common room. It was little more than a damp stretch of bare, black wall lit by torch flames on either side, but Sherlock didn't need to be able to see through it to know that there was something behind it. All magic leaves traces.
It took him about four tries to guess the password. After the wall had slid aside, Sherlock walked forwards and into the common room with assurance.
This was the first time that he had been inside, but Sherlock was unimpressed with the heavy, sloping walls that arched above his head and dangled lamps full of glowing green light. He stalked past the students reclined in armchairs near him without noticing the way some of them turned their heads and opened their mouths as if about the challenge him. He was heading to a darkened corner on the far side of the room, where a familiar profile was gazing into the fire beneath and elaborately carved mantelpiece of stone and ebony.
"Mycroft," he said upon reaching it, his voice full of contempt and belligerence.
"Little brother!" said Mycroft, looking up at him with eyebrows raised. "What brings you here to this restricted common room?"
Sherlock ignored his tone, only frowning more deeply. "You knew," he said simply, voice slightly quavering.
"I knew. I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, Sherlock, if you want me to be able to explain a particular something that I knew."
Sherlock crossed his arms, sick of this patronizing and sneering air. "You knew, all along, that I wasn't as stupid as you always made me believe."
Mycroft had his right hand on the handle of an umbrella, even though he was indoors, and he twirled its tip around on the floor so that it turned in slow circles back and forth. The witch sitting in a chair opposite him had been writing diligently on a long piece of parchment, but glanced up briefly at this out of the wavy, chestnut hair that framed her face before returning to her quill.
Mycroft sighed. "Is there something you wanted to tell me, Sherlock?"
"I only wanted to know why you acted like you thought I was an idiot when you knew full well that I wasn't, when you'd been at this school for six years and had enough time to see what even the Ravenclaws are like!"
"You thought you were an idiot, too, Sherlock," said Mycroft wearily. "And I really did at first, you know. If you're slow to me, can you imagine what it's like for me to be around normal people all the time? I'm living in a world of goldfish," he said with an irate look around the common room. "Before I came to Hogwarts I had little to compare you to, and compared to me you're hardly perspicacious."
"But you saw what other people were like when you got here six years ago," insisted Sherlock.
"Yes, I did," answered Mycroft. "And I hardly saw reason to inflate your already blooming ego. You'd get here soon enough and take it however you would, and in the mean time you had something to aspire to. Was I really so wrong to get you that drive to improve?"
"Yes," seethed Sherlock. "It's not always your place to decide. You decided for mum and dad to leave. And now I see what you're like here, reigning from your head boy status like it's a throne."
"You'll soon learn it's the undercover work in the shadows that matters the most here, little brother," said Mycroft, flicking a speck of dust from the handle of his umbrella.
"I'm sick of you," said Sherlock. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the common room.
Several seconds after the stone wall had slid shut behind him, the chestnut-haired witch turned to Mycroft, whose eyes were again focused on the fire with his fingers laced together under his chin. "You only say those things because you won't show you're proud of him," she said indifferently, hardly pulling her eyes away from the ancient runes essay she was composing.
Mycroft didn't give even a grunt of recognition that she had spoken.
Several hours later, the slight boy with dark curls still hadn't left the small room draped in dark blue hangings and filled with navy pillows that he had found on the seventh floor, just past a tapestry of trolls learning to ballet dance. It was dark, quiet, and solitary: a place where it was easy for him to shut off and ignore his emotions.