AN: Rewrote on April 2020 amidst the Covid-19 Outbreak.

—oOo—

SUMMARY:
On the first of September in 1988, a family of four arrives at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at ten o'clock in the morning.

—oOo—

"Don't be an idiot," Mycroft immediately warns Sherlock when they reach the wall between platforms nine and ten.

Looking at the four members of the family, they may just seem like another rich family, but that's not entirely true. The mother and father of this richly dressed family are the Lady and Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Holmes which is one of the oldest and wealthiest pure-blooded wizarding families in Britain—not because they aimed to be that way, but they simply are.

"Stop it, Mikey," Lady Holmes scolds her eldest son who, in turn, grumbles at the horrid nickname, "it is my youngest son's first day of school and I will hear no bickering whatsoever."

"Just an extra precaution," Mycroft insists, glaring at Sherlock in the process.

"Listen to your mother, Mycroft," Lord Holmes warns in his usual cheery voice.

Mycroft huffs in annoyance at having both parents against him whilst Sherlock grins smugly at him.

All four of them proceed to walk through the wall instead of the usual run which most wizards do. Both Lord and Lady had a hard time adjusting the first two years with Mycroft ever since he insisted that running towards the wall is not exactly a necessity, and it would be wiser to simply walk through it as to not take too much attention if something was blocking the wall.

Mycroft also pretended that he didn't hear Sherlock comment that Mycroft simply did not want to run because he was fat. Mycroft was fairly convinced that Sherlock was an evil little four-year old at the time.

They have always been an hour earlier than most since both parents would rather not have their few moments with their son in the middle of the crowd of noisy wizards and witches.

"Do you have everything you need?" Lady Holmes asks Sherlock.

"You've asked me that several times already," he grumbles in reply.

"I know. I know… Just an extra precaution, as Mikey said," she says, grinning at a frowning Mycroft.

"Off to Hogwarts, then," Lord Holmes says with a rather sad smile.

"Dear goodness, you're not going to start crying, are you?" Mycroft grumbles.

"You asked us that on your first day to Hogwarts," Lord Holmes replies with a grin, trying to hide the forming tears of pride in his eyes.

"Didn't stop them from crying, though," Sherlock comments. Mycroft huffs in amusement at their overly emotional parents.

Lady Holmes immediately loses all composure and grabs Sherlock towards her to hug him tightly.

"My youngest son is starting school. Oh, how quickly time has passed!" she cries as she practically squeezes Sherlock to death.

Sherlock doesn't seem to be able to move and so simply stands there with a distressed look on his face—begging for someone to help him get away from this monstrosity he calls Emotional Parents.

"You said that when I turned seventeen and when I turned eighteen," Mycroft comments.

"One day, Mycroft, you'll understand what it feels like to see your children all grown-up," Lady Holmes says after finally pulling herself away from Sherlock.

Sherlock laughs at the horrified look on Mycroft's face at the small suggestive nudge from their mother.

"Must be horrible to have the weight of the Holmes family lineage resting on your shoulders, Mycroft," Sherlock whispers whilst their parents fuss over Sherlock's trunks which currently look like muggle luggage. They didn't want to look too distinguishable in front of the muggles in King's Cross Station.

"When they're disappointed at my refusal to get married, the weight of the lineage will rest upon your shoulders," Mycroft replies.

Sherlock frowns. "Guess the Holmes lineage will die out, then."

"Unless Uncle Rudy decides to marry and have a child of his blood with a woman instead of cross-dressing, then, yes, the Holmes lineage will die out."

"All set then, dear," Lady Holmes announces, going towards the two brothers and hugging the youngest of the two once more. "I'm going to miss you—especially since you insisted on staying at Hogwarts over the holidays," she says bitterly.

"I wanted to see how Christmas is at Hogwarts," he defends himself. In all honesty, he's getting sick of his house.

Lady Holmes sighs. "All right, then." She, then, proceeds to talk to Mycroft.

Sherlock walks towards the train in excitement, looking at it in bewilderment with his hands in his pockets, before he notices that his father is following him. Lord Holmes stops, standing beside his youngest son with his own hands in his pockets. They stay there and bond in the silence.

"What are you thinking?" Lord Holmes asks Sherlock quietly.

Sherlock smiles a bit at the question. His father is always curious about what he's up to—most probably because he's always doing something not a lot of children would do and it grabs a curious effect on his father rather than revulsion like most fathers would have had.

"Why wizards wouldn't let muggle technology help them make their lives easier," he replies, looking at the magnificent but old train.

Lord Holmes hums. "It's because wizards were not treated well by muggles in the Dark Ages, and it bled until the modern ages."

"But this isn't caused by fear," Sherlock replies, gesturing at the train, "this is caused by superiority over the ages. The fear made muggles and wizard-kind separate a millennium ago, and over the years, wizards grew a large head and insisted they were better than everyone."

"Then there's your answer," his father tells him.

Sherlock blinks a few times before realizing what he said. He looks up at his father with a small smile with his father returning it with a smile of his own.

Lord Holmes places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder before squeezing. Sherlock got the message—his father's going to miss him, and though he wouldn't tell anyone else, he would miss his father as well because his father was the sanest in the family and always knew how to help him deal with his frustrations with the normal world.

He looks over to where Mycroft and his mother are standing. His eyes snap towards Mycroft and with a sigh, Mycroft stops his mother from ranting and finally walks over towards Sherlock. Sherlock has deduced that his mother is going to make Mycroft say goodbye to Sherlock just as she had made Sherlock say goodbye to Mycroft when Mycroft was the one boarding the train.

"Better check on your mum, then," Lord Holmes says, going towards his mother. Sherlock shakes his head at his parents' obvious tactic of getting him and Mycroft express their non-existent brotherly affection towards each other.

"Ten months of a Sherlock-less manor," Mycroft simply says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You will barely be in the manor."

"Yes, working in the Ministry will prove to be... odious."

"You only think it's odious because you're not yet on top of the food chain," Sherlock replies with another roll of his eyes.

"I can only imagine the strain of having to work for idiots," Mycroft replies and shakes his head. "You'll understand how it feels—to study under the authority of other idiots. Remember to put your head down, brother of mine. I don't want to hear you get expelled. I would be saddened to know that I will have to deal with you sooner than I anticipated."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm just glad I never have to go to Hogwarts with you , dear brother."

"If we ever receive a Hogwarts letter because of you—"

"I will be sure to avoid the Great Hall when a Howler from one of you arrives," Sherlock replies, walking away from his brother.

Sherlock walks inside the last compartment of the train and looks out of the window to see his parents waving at him goodbye and his brother giving him a brief nod before they all walk out of the platform wall of nine and three-quarters.

He sighs, leans back on his seat, grabs his Chemistry book, and starts reading. He has to agree to his mother's idea to wear the uniform earlier so as to not go through the hassle of changing later.

After a few short moments of reading, he hears his compartment door open to see Mike Stamford, a Fourth Year Hufflepuff whom he had met a few times at St. Mungo's Hospital.

"Sherlock!" Mike exclaims in surprise. "I didn't know you'd be here!"

"It's my first day," he explains.

"Ahhh, I see. You wouldn't mind if I sit here for a while, would you? I'm trying to hide from someone," Mike asks and Sherlock shakes his head. He could tune out Mike's voice anyway. "Been a while since I last saw you—not going into any trouble now, are you?"

Sherlock sighs at the memory of Mike, standing beside Healer Stamford whilst the latter helps mend a complicated amount of wounds and hexes on his arms and legs from a bully. Sherlock wasn't a complete idiot and he had managed to convince the healer that his parents were not available in the country.

"Excited to meet new friends then?" Mike asks.

Sherlock grumbles. "You've met me. I must be a difficult person to find a friendship for."

"I'm not so sure that's true," Mike argues. Sherlock simply hums in reply.

After a few more moments of reading, Mike looks out of the compartment door.

"Well, I better head off to see if"—Sherlock glances at him and Mike immediately knows that he doesn't need to continue talking for surely, Sherlock already knows that he's trying to find a rather... attractive girl from Gryffindor—"It was nice to see you again, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods at him once before sighing in relief when Mike left the compartment. He really doesn't want to talk to anyone at the moment. He could have ignored Mike altogether but the boy had tolerated him for a while and this slight amount of manners is his way of getting back to him.

—oOo—

After half an hour with Mike looking around the compartment to talk to a girl but failing, he notices someone familiar passing by, dragging a trunk behind him, looking around for empty compartments.

"John! John Watson!" he yells, running towards him. John winces but turns around at his name to see Mike who is hurrying towards him with a smile. "Stamford"—Mike reaches a hand towards John for him to shake—"Mike Stamford... We were on a boat together on our first day at Hogwarts."

John nods profusely. "Yes, sorry, yes, Mike." He takes Mike's hand and shakes it. "Hello, hi."

Mike grins and gestures to himself. "Yeah, I know. I got fat!"

John says, "No," in a rather unconvinced tone.

"We haven't talked much since you were sorted in Gryffindor."

"Yes, yes, I know," John says, nodding.

"So, how are you?"

"Fine. Fine. Good. You?"

"Not much. Although, that Potion assignment is proving to be a more pain on my side than possible," Mike replies. John chuckles. "No, seriously, what have you been up to down at the lion's den? Any story to tell?"

"No."

"Any tale? Come on. Gryffindors have a reputation, you know."

"What reputation?"

"That they always go on some adventure or another with their friends. There must have been some story there," Mike says with a grin.

Grumbling and snapping a bit, John gives him a false smile and says, "Come on—who'd want me for a regular friend?" To John's surprise, Mike chuckles thoughtfully. "What?" he asks.

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?" John asks.

"A small first year I first met at the hospital. He was reading in silence this morning when I came by—probably because he seemed pretty sure no one's going to like him... poor lad…" [1]

"Well, since there's not much people around at the moment, it wouldn't hurt to see this poor bloke, then, would it? You know first years…"

"Bright young things like we used to be," Mike agrees. "God, I hate them." Both he and John chuckle. "Concerning this first year, you don't know this kid yet," Mike says, "perhaps you wouldn't actually want him as a... regular friend." [1]

"Why?" John asks, surprised at the Hufflepuff's reluctance. "What is there against him?" [1] They both start to walk away from the compartment where they were in as Mike leads them to the last compartment on the train.

"Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little strange in his ideas—an enthusiast in some branches in both muggle and wizard studies. As far as I know, he is a decent fellow enough." [1]

"A muggle-born wizard, I suppose?" John asks.

"No—as far as I know, this kid is a pureblood," Mike replies.

John stops for a moment at the word 'pureblood' since nowadays, all things pureblood and all things that can be associated with all things muggle do not go well together. Then again, both he and Mike are half-bloods, and he can always trust Mike's choice of acquaintances... He just hopes this kid isn't a pureblood-elitist git like others. Voldemort's disappearance is still a raw thing for everyone—including the Death Eaters. Then again, Mike did say that this first year studies some muggle branches as well. He's probably not all bad.

"So... a pureblood studying muggle stuff? Isn't that odd? Did you ask him why?"

"No; he is not a kid that is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him." [1]

"Well, now, I'd really like to meet him," John says. "If I'd wanted a friend, I'd rather a kid of studious and quiet habits. I'm not strong enough to stand too much noise or excitement the entire day. I had enough from Gryffindor to last me for the remainder of my natural existence." [1]

Mike laughs quietly.

When they reach the last compartment, John sees an eleven-year old with dark curly hair reading a Chemistry book. He seemed to have found a rather comfortable position in having to put his legs up and his head hanging on the edge of the seat with the book hiding his face. His eyebrows rise up at the chemistry book, which is too advanced—even for a muggle student. John looks at the smug grin on Mike's face.

"Back again so soon, Mike?" Sherlock asks, not looking up from the book. Mike sits on the seat in front of Sherlock and motions John to sit beside him.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike tells Sherlock.

"You're in Gryffindor, I presume," Sherlock says when he glances at John.

"Oh, you," John starts, looking at Mike, "you told him about me?"

"Not a word," Mike says.

"Really, Mike?" Sherlock asks, ignoring John. "Playing mutual friends, too, now, are we?"

"Who said anything about friends?" John asks.

"I did," Sherlock replies, standing up and closing his book. He grabs his school robe and stuffs his book in one of its pockets which John believes has an extensive charm on. "Told Mike earlier that I must be a difficult person to find a friend for. Now, here he is after half an hour roaming around the train with an old friend, clearly a Gryffindor much needing a silent moment from his den. Wasn't that difficult a leap," he says, whilst he wears his school robe on top of his uniform.

"How did you know I'm a Gryffindor?" John asks, looking at his muggle clothing. Nothing could have said that he was a Gryffindor.

Sherlock ignores his question. "Got my eye on a nice little spot in the school grounds. No one would be excruciatingly noisy enough to be there. I'll lead you there tomorrow evening after classes. Sorry—gotta dash. I need to go to the loo."

With that, Sherlock moves towards the door before John stops him.

"Is that it?" John asks the eleven-year old.

"Is that what?" Sherlock turns back from the door. Mike simply finds the eleven-year old a bit adorable trying to look intimidating.

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a spot to hang."

"Problem?"

John smiles in disbelief, glancing at Mike to ask for help, but Mike—the git—just continues to smile as he looks at Sherlock. John looks back at the kid.

"We know nothing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

"I know you're a Gryffindor and that you were muggle-raised but not a muggleborn. I know you have a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's a starting alcoholic like your father was—as well as careless; but more likely because he recently walked out on his girlfriend... and I know that your father played a part in the war which is making you think of becoming a healer as well as an auror—quite ambitious, I'm afraid... That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

John looks down in thought at the thought of having a kid know too much about him. Perhaps the kid is a natural legilimens—he's read about them before—but he wasn't thinking about most of what the kid had mentioned. Far from it, to be honest. Who the hell is this kid? Maybe a seer?

Sherlock turns and walks towards the door again, opening it and going through, but then turns a bit back into the room to say, "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and no, I am not a legilimens." He click-winks at John, then looks round at Mike. "Save my compartment."

When the door slams shut behind Sherlock, John turns and looks at Mike in disbelief. Mike smiles and nods in answer.

"Yeah. He's always like that."

—oOo—

When the train starts, Mike has already left the compartment to meet up with a girl, apparently, and he is starting to believe that that Sherlock kid had been his imagination. That is until, the door opens once more and the very kid enters the compartment again with a heavy sigh, flopping on the seat in front of him in exhaustion.

"Hello," Sherlock says a bit muffled since his face is buried on the seat.

"Holmes," John greets, his hand raising on instinct. He mentally berates himself since Sherlock's face is still buried on the seat.

"Sherlock, please," the eleven-year old says, managing to shake his hand despite not seeing him.

The two boys sit in silence for a long time whilst Sherlock keeps his head buried on the seat. John looks out the window but keeps stealing nervous glances at the eleven-year old. Sensing the nerves of the older boy, Sherlock finally lifts his head and sits right side up on the seat in front of the blonde.

"Okay, you've got questions," Sherlock states.

"Are you a legilimens?" John asks.

"I already told you I am not. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?"

"I'm an eleven-year old starting school at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Sherlock replies.

John looks at the kid for a few moments, trying to sense if this kid is trying to piss him off by stating the obvious... or perhaps not.

"No, I mean, tell me something about yourself."

"I didn't know I was signing up for an interview," Sherlock replies. John chuckles but Sherlock answers, "If you're really interested, I'm a pureblood from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Holmes. Don't worry. I don't care much for titles anyway and think of it as something idiotic that some wizards are still stuck with the old mindset of an eroding zircon crystal." [2]

"Oookay... Oh, I have a typical question: What house do you think you'll be in?" John asks.

Sherlock grumbles. "Everyone keeps asking me that question."

"Being a pureblood, I guess you'd go where your parents were, wouldn't you?" John asks. The kid is probably a Slytherin. No, John doesn't believe that every Slytherin is evil, but most pure-bloods end up in Slytherin for some reason.

"There is no telling, really," Sherlock replies.

"Oh?" John asks curiously.

Sherlock chuckles. "My father was in Hufflepuff. My mother was in Gryffindor. My older brother, on the other hand, was in Slytherin."

John raises a brow at that. "Maybe, you'll be in Ravenclaw," he says, remembering the boy's Chemistry book earlier, "so all four Holmeses are in all four houses."

Sherlock's lip twitches upward a bit. "Perhaps."

"Ravenclaw... hmm…" He clears his throat. "Speaking of knowledge, h-how did you know all those things about me?"

Sherlock inwardly chuckles, knowing that this is what John had been thinking of this whole time. "By using the Science of Deduction," Sherlock says with a glint in his eyes which John noticed.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I could identify a designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb," Sherlock replies.

"Really?" John asks with a snort in disbelief.

"Yes; and I can read your upbringing from your face and your trunk; your brother's starting habits from your jacket; and your father's drinking habits on your pocket watch."

"How? No wizard becomes an amateur."

Sherlock gives him a look. "Earlier, I said 'You're a Gryffindor and that you were muggle-raised but not a muggleborn.' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your walk, the way you hold yourself, says Gryffindor. Your clothes are an obvious display of muggle fashion, as well as your trunk—or your luggage, to be more precise—which is old. You don't really need to buy second-hand luggage because though you might not be rich, you're not exactly poor either. The luggage was obviously owned by someone in the family. So, that shows that you are, at least, muggle-raised."

"Why would you think I'm not a muggleborn?"

"I see scars on the side of your face that can only come from Sectumsempra and it seems to be nearing a decade old. Obviously, you were attacked by a wizard—most likely by a Death Eater if my calculations are correct. Anyway, the way the scar was placed, obviously, a shield was put up on most of your body but that particular side of your face was not so lucky. Fortunately enough, no one would notice it unless they were looking for it, or if they were me."

John lets Sherlock's self-praise go for a while.

"You said my father was part of the war—not my mother."

"Initials on the luggage which says P.N. instead of a W. The mother would have been the only one in the family who would have changed their surname at some point in their life... She owned the luggage. She was the muggle. There is also the fact that you refer to your father in the past tense and that you have his pocket watch…" John quietens a bit at that. "Then there's your brother." [3]

"Hmm?"

"Your jacket. It's expensive, Haversack, hammered press studs, but you came from a thrifty family—evident from the luggage—you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Ripped. Not one, many over time. The student in front of me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy; you know it already."

"The embroidery," John says.

On the inside of John's black cotton jacket, down to the lower part in small writing, which is partially shown from how John is sitting, there is a small embroidery saying 'To Harry Watson. From Clara xxx.'

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old jacket. Not your father, this is a young man's jacket. Could be a cousin, but you're a Gryffindor who'd rather coop up in a silent compartment. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the jacket says 'serious relationship.'" [4]

John watches the kid in front of him with growing interest.

"She must have given it to him recently—this model's only six months old. Relationship in trouble then—six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do—sentiment, but no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the jacket to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for friends—social problems, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his girlfriend; maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smiles. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Jacket buttons: tiny little scruff marks around the edge of it. Every time, he buttons it but his hands are shaking. Some were reattached multiple times. You never see those marks on a sober man's possession; never see a drunk's without them."

"You mentioned my father was an alcoholic."

"All from the pocket watch…" John takes his pocket watch from his jacket and places it to Sherlock's outstretched hand. Sherlock, then, investigates it. "Your father was a bit careless. You can observe the lower part of that watch-case. You notice that it is not only dented in two places, but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard objects, such as keys or coins, in the same pocket. Surely, it is not a great feat to assume that a man who treats a traditional gift from one father to the next so cavalierly must be a careless man." [1]

John nods in understanding.

"Now, look at the inner plate. It contains the keyhole. Look at the thousands of scratches all round the hole—marks where the key has slipped. What sober man's key could have scored those grooves? Like I said, you never see a drunk's without them." [1]

Sherlock hands John the pocket watch once more.

"There you go, you see—you were right."

"I was right? Right about what?"

"No wizard becomes an amateur."

Sherlock looks out of the window, and bites his lip nervously as he waits for another blow to the face, or an insult, or something.

"That... was amazing."

Sherlock freezes, blinks a few more minutes. For once, he doesn't have a quick reply to retort. He looks at John briefly who is looking out of the window himself. He decides to look at the window as well.

"Do you think so?" he manages to ask.

"Of course, it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite... extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'!"

Sherlock smiles briefly at John, who grins and looks out of the window again, chuckling softly. After a few moments, John thinks about why someone would tell a kid to piss off. Shaking his head, he continues to think that perhaps meeting Sherlock Holmes was not so horrible after all.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Dialogue—slightly altered to fit the story—from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes series books—specifically "A Study in Scarlet."

[2] There is an ancient crystal called a zircon... It's like 4.4 billion years old and it's said, by scientist, to be the earliest confirmed piece of Earth's crust which is awesome. Zircon crystals take a really long time and it actually survives erosion... so basically, it's kinda like a really old immortal crystal.

So basically, Sherlock is complaining that some wizards are still stuck with ancient traditions. Sherlock is such a nerd.

[3] Martin Freeman's mother's name is Philomena Freeman (née Norris).

[4] From John's blog 2010, John mentions that Harry is 36 years old. Assuming Harry Watson's birthday is after January 29, the year of her birth would be in 1973, a year before John's.