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Said The Spider
Said The Spider
“I can't believe it!” John said, positively buzzing with joy as they changed into the standard Hogwarts uniforms. “We're in the world of Harry Potter!”
Sherlock shook his head as he straightened his tie. (“I hate these things,” he thought.) “It's impossible.”
John chuckled, still high on happiness. “It's mag...”
“Don't say it...” Sherlock said.
“Well, how do you explain us suddenly becoming eleven years old?” John asked.
Sherlock shook his head. “I... can't. And admittedly, it somewhat scares me. Perhaps it's all just hallucinogenic drugs?”
John sighed as he put on his robe, rolling his eyes. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.” Sherlock was about to offer a rebuttal when, with a screech, the train stopped.
As the boys took the boat ride alongside their fellow First Years to Hogwarts, Sherlock was formulating a plan. “We'll find our way back home soon. The drugs can only last so long...” John looked up at the sky. “You're still clinging to that theory, I see.” he replied.
Sherlock looked up at the sky, too, curious as to what had his dear friend's attention. He could see winged horses flying carriages to the school. “Just how I pictured them...” John whispered to himself.
“The threstals.” John explained. “You can only see them when you've seen death and accepted the concept.”
Sherlock nodded. “Ah. And you can see them because of Afghanistan.” John nodded, sighing a little.
“And I assume that at least the cabbie allows you to see them.” Sherlock shrugged and turned to John, realizing that he might be an even more useful companion than usual.
“Is there anything else I should know, John, in the event this whole thing isn't the result of drugs?” The young sociopath inquired.
John grinned, pleased that Sherlock was taking an interest. “Well, for now, should probably know the four Houses. The two major Houses are Gryffindor and Slytherin, as they're the ones that get the most attention. Gryffindor is the house where a lot of heroes come from...”
“So it is not the house for me.” Sherlock quipped.
John continued, “And it's the house of bravery...”
“So you will most likely end up there...” Sherlock said.
John was almost taken aback by the compliment. “Well, thank you...” he said.
“Anytime.” Sherlock replied, assuming his thinking position.
“Slytherin's the House for people with ambition and cunning. They have the reputation of being the source of villainous wizards.”
“But I take it they're not all bad?”
“No, some good people have come from there, I guess...” John continued, “Then, we have the Ravenclaws. Their focus is intelligence. I'd be surprised if you didn't get sorted there.”
“Mm-hm, and the last one?”
“Oh, that's Hufflepuff. They're about loyalty. They're pretty much ignored, though...”
Sherlock nodded. “that's another option if I'm not a Ravenclaw. Best to be under the radar.”
In the halls of Hogwarts, Sherlock started to feel rather jealous of John. John knew quite a bit about the wizarding world, and it was rather useful. For example, John was able to deduce that they had been transported back in time as well (about early 1990, at the most). All because certain professors were alive and had certain jobs. That, along with some of the students there (or not there) as well.
It killed Sherlock a little not knowing these things. Sure, there were a few phrases Sherlock caught from some Scotland Yard officers who rather vocal Harry Potter fans. The ones that came to mind were: “Secctumsempra”, “mudblood”, “Expecto Patronum”, “Muggle”, and “Azkaban”. But Sherlock was sure none of these phrases would ever be of use. Would he have to rely on John for everything?
While in his thoughts amongst the crowd of First Years, Sherlock suddenly heard an all-too-familiar voice. “Well, hello handsome!”
Sherlock let out an annoyed huff and massaged his temples. “Please don't tell me he's here, too.” He turned around, and sure enough, there was an eleven-year-old Jim Moriarty, looking right at him.
Moriarty clapped his hands together. “So, it's true. Sherlock Holmes has come to Hogwarts.” He stuck out his hand. “The name is Jim Moriarty.”
Sherlock just looked at his hand, unimpressed. “I know who you are...”
Jim smirked and put his hand away. He cocked an eyebrow. “Why, Mr. Holmes, have you been spying on me? Must say I'm flattered...”
Moriarty clapped his hand on a boy standing beside him. Sherlock took notice of the boy. He was a young lad with scruffy, ill-kept brown hair and pale blue eyes. Moriarty noticed this. “This is Sebastian Moran. He never leaves my side.” Moriarty finally noticed John. “You could stand to leave that one's side, though.” John scowled. He could never forgive The Consulting Criminal for strapping him to explosives and nearly killing him and Sherlock. Even if this might not be the "real" one.
Moriarty went up to Sherlock, throwing his arm around his shoulder. “You don't want to get involved with one of those Watsons...” He continued. Moriarty then whispered to Sherlock's ear (hiding his mouth from John with his hand), “Comes from a filthy family of mudbloods, that one.” Moriarty nodded and returned to an audible volume. “Of, course, you'd probably know that. Minister's brother and all...”
Sherlock pulled out of Moriarty's grip. “Moriarty,” he said, wrapping an arm around John. “This is my friend, John Watson, who is occasionally good enough to stand by my side. If you're trying to get on my good side, it's better to leave him alone. And not to even bother trying.”
Moriarty growled. “Wait until my brother hears about this.” And he stormed off with Moran. Sherlock smiled at John.
“Well, now you can't say I'll never defend you.”
John nodded. “Let go of me.”
Sherlock quickly let released John. “Right...”
“He said I was a mudblood, didn't he?” John asked.
Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Is that bad?”
John shook his head. “Not being one, “mudblood” is just a derogatory way to say I'm either muggle-born or half-muggle. And that this Moriarty is racist pure-blood wizard.”
Sherlock nodded. “Ah.”
And with that, they walked into The Great Hall.
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