"Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Diagon Alley." He grinned when the poker faced Sherlock stared open mouthed in awe. Which he quickly covered to his usual neutral impassive mask.
They stepped through the archway and when Sherlock looked over his shoulder he saw the archway shrink instantly back into solid wall.
The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons All Sizes Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver, Self-Stirring Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.
"Yeah, you'll be needin' one," said Hagrid, "but we gotta get yer money first."
Whose money? Sherlock wondered, but the question soon vanished from his mind as they walked. He turned his head every which way as they walked up the street, trying to memorize everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. Sherlock tried to soak up everything like a sponge.
Robes, telescopes, silver instruments that looked alien, Windows stacked with barrels of bay seems and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spellbooks, quills, rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon. . . .
"Gringotts," said Hagrid as Sherlock was snapped from his daze.
They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was-
"Yeah, that's a goblin," Hagrid quietly murmured as they walked up the white stone steps toward him.
Fascinating, does he have human intelligence? Sherlock wondered. The goblin was a head shorter than him. He has a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and very long fingers. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of silver doors with writing on it.
"Like I said, yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," said Hagrid.
~~~~~~~~~~lazy~ass~author~declared~skip~of~time~~~~~~~~~~~~
"All yours," smiled Hagrid when they had rode the cart down to Sherlock's vault.
It was rather impressive Sherlock thought as Hagrid helped pile some of it into a bag.
"The gold ones are Galleons," Hagrid explained. "Seventeen silver Sickles to Galleon and twenty-nine bronze Knuts to a sickle, it's easy enough. Right, that should be enough fer a couple o' terms, we'll keep the rest safe for yeh." He turned to Griphook. "Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?"
"One speed only," said Griphook.
~~~~~~~lazy~ass~author~declared~another~skip~of~time~~~~~~~
Sherlock longed to know what was in the grubby little package of vault seven hundred and thirteen, but that would mean admitting he wasn't the greatest consulting detective of all time. Which he clearly was. The only clues were that Dumbledore had requested Hagrid fetch this object of importance. A magical artifact perhaps?
"Might as well get yer uniform," said Hagrid, interrupting Sherlock's thought process and nodding toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Listen, Harr-Sherlock, would you mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts." He did look a bit sick, so Sherlock entered Madam Malkin's shop alone, feeling rather excited. The game is on!
Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. "Hogwarts, dear?" she said, when Sherlock started to speak. "Got the lot here. Another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."
I'm the back of the shop, a boy with a pale pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up with long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Sherlock on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.
"Hello," said the boy, " Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes," said Sherlock as he studied the boy.
"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully my father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."
Sherlock was strongly reminded of Dudley. Although this boy's face looks remarkably similar to Anderson's.
"Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.
"No," said Sherlock.
"Play Quidditch at all?"
"I don't have a broom," Sherlock reminded him.
"Really," the boy sneered. "Well I do and my father said its a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I agree. Do you even know what house you'll be in yet?"
"Yes," said Sherlock though he only knew what two of them were.
"No one really knows till they get there so how could you? But I know I'll be in Slytherin, all of our family have been. Which house do you think you'll be in? Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"
"Imagine being an spoiled brat who thinks he's better than everyone because his parents are arrogant pricks that taught him to be the same." Sherlock replied.
The boy's face didn't turn red but did tint a rather alarming shade of pink. "Just who do you think you are? Bet you weren't raised by our kind either. Bet you're just some filthy mudblood!"
"Mr. Malfoy there is no need for that language!" said Madam Malkin sharply.
"Just wait till my father hears about this," Malfoy retorted and left in the most dignified way he could muster.
"That's you done then dearie," Madam Malkin said quietly as she patted Sherlock's arm.
Sherlock feeling rather smug left to a waiting Hagrid.
YOU ARE READING
Sherlock's Story (A Harry Potter and Sherlock crossover)
Hayran Kurgu"People usually leave a note don't they? When they . . ." Sherlock didn't mean to die. Something happened to his carefully thought out plan. At least he assumes he died. After all how else would explain awakening to find one's self in the body of a...
