A/N: Sorry this is only 600 words. I'll make the next chapter longer!

Young Sherlock Watson shuffled his feet dolefully, a used trunk and his brother John at his side, silently waiting for the Hogwarts Express at Platform 9 3/4, King's Cross Station. He was surrounded by a flurry of middle-grade children socializing and saying teary goodbyes to their parents. He felt very alone. Suddenly, the large red clock mounted on the wall across from him ticked loudly and an old-fashioned steam engine appeared out of nowhere on the tracks. The mass of teenagers and scared-looking first years fought their way into the train until only a few parents, forgotten pet frogs, and packets of potion ingredients remained on the platform. Sherlock lowered his head and slowly trudged back away from the tracks as the clock chimed 9:00 and the Hogwarts Express shot away into the English countryside, with John Watson on it. Sherlock slipped back through the magical barrier and met up with his parents, the Watsons.

The drive back to Sherlock's home in Little Whinging, Surrey, was quiet. Sherlock had put on his favorite black trench coat and was playing with one of the buttons on it. He twisted it back and forth, back and forth, until finally the ferocity with which he was twisting was too much for the button and it popped off his coat with a ripping sound.

"Figures," the eleven year-old muttered to himself.

"What was that, Sherlock?" his mother said, turning around in her seat of the car to look at him.

"'That'? It's a word in the dictionary, Mum. Comes after 'thanks'."

"Sherlock!"

"Well, what am I supposed to say?"

"You're supposed... to be happy for John, not moaning and groaning like you are!" cried Mrs. Watson crossly.

"I don't care!" Sherlock replied, and dug his face into his ripped coat for the rest of the ride. It took a strong tug on his arm for Sherlock's father to get his son up when they pulled into their driveway. Sherlock walked quickly into the house, not looking back, with his head held stiffly high but one tear dripping down his face.

Sherlock entered the room that he had used to share with John. He gazed at the blank walls that were once plastered with posters of football teams and reached for his picture of the periodic table that John had never let him hang. He got a piece of tape and stabbed the picture onto the wall with all of his might. It fell to the floor.

What's so special about John? Why couldn't I go too? he thought to himself.

He snatched the poster off the cold hard-wooded floor and ripped it in two.

I bet there's no such thing as magic. There can't be.

He ripped it again, this time with more force.

I can tell anything about anyone. Everyone says so. They say I'm the smartest kid in Britain.

He shredded the paper with his lean, nimble fingers but gasped in pain and started nursing a paper cut.

But he goes to a magic school and not me? What's wrong with me, then?

He fell backwards onto his bed and curled into a ball. I know what's wrong with me. I'm not one of them. Who knows where my real parents are? I can't go to Hogwarts because nobody wants me but John and Mum and Dad. Now one of them is gone. And he'll never want to come back.