Johnlock At Hogwarts

The Hogwarts Express Part 1

A/N Sorry about the long period of time between updates. I'm not going to promise that I'll post weekly, or even monthly, but I'll try to keep working on it, even sporadically. If you like the story, please vote or comment.
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With our carts loaded with trunks, we maneuver our way past ignorant and idiotic muggles and progress along the corridors of King's Cross. They won't let me bring Redbeard as a pet, so I settled for an owl. It's incredibly superfluous compared to those post owls that the school provides; those owls are on the brink of death, which is good for anatomical study, but not for mailing packages.

I see a family of witches and wizards, the younger one is panicking about going through the wall to get to platform 9 3/4. Deciding to annoy him, I shut my eyes and make my way through the wall with a smirk on my face and a feeling of pure superiority. Mycroft is head boy this year and has accordingly rubbed my face in his "incredible accomplishment that will never be achieved by the likes of me." He always ends this with "or," as if he's going to mention someone else, but always shakes his head and moves to a different subject.

The deafening whistle blows, and the conductor says in his annoying and godforsaken voice "All aboard!", as if we don't know what the damn whistle means. As if we never memorized a book about the making and history of steam engines when we were 8. I mean, only idiots haven't done that. 

I board the train and find an empty compartment. I immediately lie down on the seat to avoid having other patrons try to seat themselves around me, and start immersing myself in one of my favourite methods of wasting time; solving cold case murders from no less than forty years ago. I never tell anyone of my findings, but pride myself in an intellect superior to an entire police force with the evidence before them.

The fearful boy from the platform wearily approaches my compartment, looks in and s l o w l y starts to slide open the door. In a mouse-like whisper, he says:

"Is it alright if I come in?"

"Whatever," I say.

He slithers in and silently sits down opposite me. Intuitively, I snap up in an instance and start spouting facts at the rate they come into my brain, which is pretty fast. Not about my case, but about the child opposite myself. 

"Your name is John Watson. You have an older brother, no, a sister named Harriet whose old books and robes you now have. Your parents are both muggles, and were surprised by the fact that both of their children were magical and you had a toad, but you lost it and now have a rat. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

The boy begins to come out of his shell and with a puzzled look on his face, says, "How the hell did you know all that?"

I decide that I could tell him the actual way I deducted this, which was based off the inside of his robe, which is too big, and I immediately thought was an older brother's, but then saw that name spot stitched in, his name was prominent, but there was a scratched out name above it; Harriet. He is obviously unfamiliar with magical surroundings and was henceforth raised in a muggle environment. It would be quite surprising to have two magical children - which his sister obviously is - if you were a muggle. He has the toad cage I saw at the pet store, but there is a rat in it, hence, he lost the toad, but didn't want another cage. Instead, I decide to tell him that I overheard him on the platform, which I am surprised by, as that isn't usually my stance on explanations.  He decides this is a sufficient explanation, and makes a sorrowful attempt to engage me in "friendly chitchat".

"Pretty nerve wracking, this whole Hogwarts stuff, huh?"

"Not at all," I regrettably reply, "Hogwarts is an ancient institution that has some of the best magical professors in the northern hemisphere. Unless you're worried about the giant basilisk under the girls' lavatory, which shouldn't be a problem, I see no reason to be nervous about entering what is essentially a old boarding school."

"What the bloody hell is a 'Basilisk?'"

"Giant serpent, giant fangs, you  know, basilisk"

"Oh, right," he mutters, "That basilisk, I thought you were talking about the other basilisk."

"What 'other basilisk?'" I inquire.

"I don't ruddy know!" he almost shouts, "As you so eagerly pointed out, I'm muggle born and have no bloody idea what any of this magic stuff is, but as I don't want to go to wizard prison for underage magic, I'm going to this school!"

We sit in silence for a few moments, until the trolley witch appears at the door, asks us what we want and goes on her merry little way.

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As we sit in silence and eat our treats, I can't help but wonder why this golden haired boy hasn't switched compartments. He obviously thinks of me as an irritating twat. I mean, I kind of am. I analyzed him intently, but why did I lie about it? I usually have absolutely no trouble bragging about my astonishing capabilities to anyone who will listen. But not John. I wonder why.