Hey guys! Thanks you everyone who reviewed! You guys are amaze! Special thanks to the people who PMed me with ideas and requests, and I'm sorry I couldn't incorporate everything you guys suggested into the story, but I'm doing my best! Hope you all continue to like it!

SB: just out of curiosity, what about the fic were you afraid would be disappointing? Anyway, I'm glad it's not!

Mia: OMG! I love that idea! Because of your review, a name from canon popped into my head, and so I'm going to change around the ages of some sidecharacters to incorporate this, but I love it so much! Thank you thank you!

Hi: Hmm…will Mycroft rule the wizarding world…? Well, I would expect he'd certainly try. xD

Farawisa: Oops, thanks for pointing that out! Just went back and fixed it for ya!

Just in general: Yes, Mrs. H has been reincarnated, and she will be a somewhat integral part of this fic. She's just lost memory of her previous life. Also, thank you so much for the birthday wishes, you guys make me happy! Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Sherlock still hadn't let go of John's hand by the time Professor McGonagall left the new students to their own devices in the entrance hall. In fact, he was huddling so close, with his nose pressed to John's chest, that John had his free arm slung over Sherlock's shoulders. Both boys were ignoring the puzzled glances everyone else was giving them. Their peers were already muttering about 'those weirdos hanging off of each other', but honestly John couldn't care less. And he was fairly certain Sherlock was simply ignoring them all.

Sherlock did look surprised, though, when several ghosts floated through the walls, coming into the hall, levitating above their heads. His eyes were as wide as saucers as the two ghosts argued over someone named "Peeves". John wasn't surprised, as his brothers had told him about the Fat Friar and Nearly Headless Nick ages ago. "How do we get sorted?" John heard Greg…Hermione?...ask no one in particular.

"I don't know," admitted John quietly. "Fred and George said something about a troll. But I'm pretty sure they were joking." Sherlock looked moderately interested at that, but the Mycroft scoffed.

"Please," he drawled. "I assure you, it's nothing of the sort."

Before John could ask what it was, then, if not trial by troll, the doors opened and McGonagall requested they all follow her. They were led into a cathedral like room with orbs of light floating above tables laden with golden plates and goblets. Hundreds of children sat, clad in identical black robes, staring at them as they walked in a semblance of a line down the aisle between the two center tables. "When I call your name," McGonagall said to the nervous first years, "step forward and sit yourself on the stool." Then she cleared her throat before pulling a scroll of parchment out of one of her billowing sleeves and announced "Abbot, Hannah!"

Sherlock ignored the slightly plump blonde girl approaching the stool in favor of staring up at the sky/ceiling. He remembered reading about it in a book he'd acquired in Diagon Alley, and apparently Gremione had read the same one, as she was spouting the useless information she'd read to anyone nearby. As McGonagall called out "Brown, Lavender" his eyes drifted over to the teacher's table. In the high backed chair in the center, which was ornately decorated and gleaming all gold and silver, was Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster caught his gaze and nodded to him with a twinkle in his eyes. Sherlock kept his face impassive. The man looked like Santa.

Sherlock didn't like Santa. Bribing children to be boring with useless garbage, breaking and entering on an annual basis, not to mention the replicas at malls and holiday festivities were always mean or patronizing. One of his fondest memories of (his first) childhood was of he and Mycroft setting up 'security measures' every Christmas. After all, Mummy and Father had already bought (and unsuccessfully hidden) all of the presents they'd asked for. They didn't need a fat man's bribery. "Creevy, Colin!" Sherlock was pulled from his musing for a moment as a familiar looking blonde boy stumbled forward.

This Santa seemed particularly suspicious…and familiar. Another reason Sherlock decided he didn't like him, was that he couldn't deduce much of anything about him. The man had a sweet tooth, as indicated by stains on his sleeves and robe collar by (what looked like) something yellow and sticky. Some sort of candy, maybe? The man gave fond looks at everyone and everything, however the sweep of his gaze was calculating. Manipulative, but genuine? Genuinely manipulative for sure, you could tell by the way the other teachers acted towards him. Resentment and exasperation, but affection and respect…by almost all of them.

The man in the turban sitting three chairs down to the left seemed frightened of the man. Interesting. The man was spacey to borrow a word from John's horrible vocabulary. His eyes would go unfocused, as the man thought about something deeply. Then he'd jump with surprise when someone spoke to him. When he thought no one was looking, a hard edge would enter his eyes and he'd sweep the room with his gaze, much like the headmaster had done. Over all, this man was acting decidedly guilty. Best avoid both the man in the turban, as well as the headmaster.

Sitting to the right of Turban man was a face Sherlock recognized as Professor Snape, the Potions Master. The man was staring directly at him, a thoughtful look on his face. "Granger, Hermione" McGonagall called out. Sherlock looked away from the headtable to watch Greg's sorting. The old witch placed and even older hat on Greg's head. Sherlock watched, fascinated as Gremione's whole body tensed with shock and worry. Her fingers were gripped tightly around the edge of the stool's seat; her knuckles were white. John's grip on Sherlock's hand tightened minutely. "GRYFFINDOR" the hat bellowed. Greg shot Sherlock and John a wide grin before bouncing off to the Gryffindor table. Sherlock snuck another glace at Snape, the man was still staring at him, his hand rubbing his chin absently. Before long "Longbottom, Neville!" went to "GRYFFINDOR" and "Malfoy, Draco!" went to "SLYTHERIN".

When "Potter, Harry!" was called out, Sherlock didn't react at first. Honestly he kept trying to delete the knowledge that that horribly dull name belonged to him. It wasn't until John jerked his hand sharply and pushed him forward that Sherlock remembered at all. And while he was far from embarrassed, he was slightly uncomfortable by the staring, and the muttering, and the whispering. He was used to being different, but this was beyond being different. Sherlock felt like an animal on display to be petted at the zoo.

"Harry Potter? The Harry Potter?"

"…Boy-Who-Lived"

"Think he'll sign my textbook?"

"What's he wearing?"

"By Merlin's balls he's cute"

"He's rather small for a Dark Lord Vanquisher"

"And how many of those have you encountered?"

Blocking out the sound of whispers and idiocy, Sherlock climbed up onto the stool as gracefully as he could manage. The hat was plopped down onto his head, and slipped down covering his eyes and ears. "Well, you're the third one today! Makes one wonder what in Morgana's name Fate is up to."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, nothing…now, where to put you?"

"Gryffindor." Sherlock told the hat. "And there'll be another boy, John Watson, who is like me. Put him there as well. I'm fairly certain he's got the traits for Gryffindor anyway, but just in case…"

"Why Gryffindor, young Thrice-Borne?"

"If I go into Slytherin, I'll be gawked at; accused of being a Dark Lord or something of the sort. Furthermore, you put Mycroft in that House. It's unacceptable that I go there as well. As for Hufflepuff…you can't really be considering putting me there."

"No," the hat agreed. "But then there's always Ravenclaw. You fit right in there."

Sherlock scoffed audibly. "I highly doubt that. Chances are I'd just alienate myself and make my 'peers' jealous."

"Alright, alright, no need to be huffy Thrice-borne." The hat sounded amused. Sherlock was annoyed. He didn't like it when people were amused by him, because he was never trying to be amusing…unless it was for John. "From what I can see, I could just as easily put your Doctor into any of the Houses. Except Slytherin, of course." Sherlock barely had time to register his rising panic than had the hat shouted out "GRYFFINDOR!"

The red and gold table erupted into cheers. John's twin brothers clapped each other on the back screaming, "WE GOT POTTER! WE GOT POTTER!" Sherlock sullenly glared at the hat before tromping down the steps and plunking down near the mischievous looking redheads, across the table from Greg. "Oi, we're not that bad, no need to look so grouchy."

"It was being rude," Sherlock snapped, still glaring at the hat. Several people close by looked confused, though Greg seemed to understand. The twins only laughed.

"It was a bit rude to us, too, mate" said one.

"Wanted to put us in Slytherin"

"Too cunning for Gryffindor, it said."

"Too ambitious for Gryffindor, it said"

"But now look at us!"

"We're basically Gryffindor's mascots!"

This declaration was met by a round of laughter as they introduced themselves as Fred and George. Another red head, who looked to be about fifteen and was wearing a prefect badge that had very obviously been shined recently held out a hand pompously."

"Percy Weasley, prefect of Gryffindor." The boy introduced. Sherlock wouldn't have shaken his hand if it weren't for the fact he was related to John. "You'll soon find that not all of Gryffindor are noisy buffoons…" Percy trailed off and looked around at the table. "Just most of them."

"Awww, are we being too noisy for perfect prefect Percy?" asked Fred and George in unison. Then Fred looked to his brother. "Say that ten times fast." To which George began to rapidly mouth "Perfect prefect Percy".

Sherlock was mostly ignoring them as he will the sorting to go faster. A Hufflepuff was sorted. Four Ravenclaw in a row. A Slytherin. Another Hufflepuff. A Slytherin, and then "Weasley, Ronald" John stepped confidently up to the stool, a smile on his lips.

"Ron…" Percy breathed in awe and confusion.

"His limp is gone" Fred gasped while George just gaped wordlessly. Greg looked up at them.

"Limp?" she asked.

"He's always had one," said George offhandedly.

"Since the day he was born," added Fred. "Always looked like every step hurt him." Sherlock observed Severus Snape looking towards John with confused interest as well. The smile on John's face grew as he listened to the Hat speak in his mind. Sherlock held his breath, clenching his fists.

"GRYFFINDOR!" Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as John handed the hat back to McGonagall for "Zabini, Blaise" to be sorted to Slytherin. John sank down next to Sherlock and Fred, automatically clutching Sherlock's hand beneath the table.

"So, Ronnikins," George began casually as Dumbledore stood and announced several rules to be followed, and introduced the new "Defence Against the Arts" teacher. "How're you feeling?"

Sherlock knew that it was then John realized about his limp, even though John was good at not letting it show too much on his face. "I feel great!" John said honestly. "Better than ever, like a million weights rolled off my back." Sherlock hid a smile at the genuine joy in his friend's voice. Percy, George and Fred all shared a significant look. There was disbelief on their face, some suspicious, but mostly relief. So, they'd all been worried about "Ronald". Sherlock was glad John had been placed into such a loving home. The Headmaster spoke once more, just a bunch of gibberish that Sherlock supposed was supposed to be funny, and the table erupted. Mounds and mounds of food appeared, probably teleported from somewhere Sherlock thought. No way Dumbledore was simply able to conjure up this much food, otherwise world hunger wouldn't be an issue.

That or the wizards simply didn't care.

John struggled to serve his own food and eat it with just his left hand, so that he didn't have to let go of Sherlock. Sherlock let this go on for about five more minutes, then he tugged his own hand away to grab a jug of…was this pumpkin juice? John pouted for a moment, then went back to eating. John occasionally put food on Sherlock's pate, then jabbed him in the ribs until the smaller boy began to nibble at it. He wasn't hungry, but Sherlock knew logically his body needed the extra nutrients to recover from a lifetime of near starvation. To retaliate, Sherlock ended up taking most of what he ate off of John's plate. But the other boy didn't really seem to mind, he just added more to his own and kept eating.

Sherlock realized about half way through the meal (and here he started mentally kicking himself) that the three older Weasley's were giving them curious looks. Sherlock put down the chicken leg he'd been chewing and looked up at Percy. "What?" he asked.

"You're friends with Ron, then?" Percy asked cautiously. Sherlock scoffed.

"Obviously."

Percy scowled. "How's it you met Harry, Ron?" he asked his youngest brother. Ron swallowed the mouthful of potpie before he spoke.

"Just ran into him on the train," John answered. "By the way, he doesn't like to be called 'Harry'. He likes to be called "Sherlock"." Percy started a bit, and three feet away a jug of pumpkin juice exploded. Percy blushed then waved a wand to clean it up. Fred and George's mouths were gaping.

"Sherlock?" they both asked. Sherlock turned to give John an exasperated look, clearly Sherlock had just realized John had told more than a few people about him. On one hand, Sherlock was flattered. On the other hand, it would put them under unwanted surveillance by the Weasley family.

"What of it?" Sherlock asked. "Harry's such a dull name." Sherlock sighed, it was even getting dull just calling it dull. He needed to start using a new word: Tedious, monotonous, wearisome, humdrum, lackluster…Sherlock's train of thought drifted away from the table as he entered his mind palace to shuffle through the many shelves, looking for a new word to replace "dull" with. "Insipid" sounded more cutting, "trite" was another option…

John watched him fondly, recognizing the vacant look in his eyes for what it was. The blank expression, however, made Greg start worrying. "Is he alright?" she asked from across the table. "He looks like he's about to pass out."

"Yeah," John said. "He's just thinking."

"About what?" Fred asked as George said "Is it really that hard for him?" John snorted out a laugh as he took Sherlock's hand again then resumed eating with his left. He'd forgotten to be discrete about it and realized his messup when Percy raised both eyebrows. John refused to react, pretending like he noticed nothing.

****1047*****

Sherlock wasn't as much in awe of the magnificent hallways as his first year peers, but he still found himself mildly impressed at the moving pictures. He vaguely wondered if the pictures would feel pain if you burned a piece of them, or peeled off part of their pain with a knife. He then wondered if anyone would notice if one of the many, many pictures in the hall went missing.

John seemed to read his mind, which would have been disconcerting if the fact hadn't made Sherlock so pleased. John saw Sherlock staring with a sort of "sadistic grin" ("I don't grin, John") and tugged on his arm sharply. "Don't even think about it," John ordered him in his Captain Watson authoritative voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but allowed John to pull him away and towards the rest of the group.

The Gryffindor common rooms was smaller than Sherlock had expected, what with an approximate seventy to eighty five students in the House (allowing an average of twelve or so per year). Despite its small-ish size, however, it was very warm and comfortable, with a roaring fire and plush sofas. John looked around him, obviously pleased with his new surroundings. Sherlock only listened with half an ear as perfect prefect Percy directed them to their rooms. Sherlock wasn't tired, so he reasoned that he'd explore the castle as everyone slept. He'd just wait until John was asleep.

Unfortunately, John pulled his mind reading trick again.

"You can't go wandering, Sherlock," John told him once they were alone. Neville and Dean were in the bathroom brushing their teeth, Seamus was in the shower. John had gotten ready for bed quickly, and Sherlock had simply changed into nightclothes. Sherlock scowled at him. "No, don't argue." John told him, holding up a hand to halt any arguments that might come out of Sherlock. "I just found you, I don't want to fight. But I also know that Filch will be running rounds, and if you get into too much trouble, you'll get kicked out. And if you get kicked out and sent back to the muggles, who knows when I'll see you again."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm the Chosen One," Sherlock said, puffing out his chest with a false bravado. "They're not going to kick me out." But John's words left a niggling doubt in his mind. Sherlock sighed heavily, flopping down on his back in his bed. "Fine," he said.

John gave him a suspicious look, then climbed across his own bed and clambered into Sherlock's. Sherlock gave him a puzzled look as John ripped out the sheets and blankets from under Sherlock. "What are you doing?" he asked as John made himself comfortable against Sherlock's pillows. John patted the mattress next to him.

"I don't trust you," John said with a deceptively sweet smile. "Go to sleep."

"I don't need to sleep; I slept last night."

"Go to sleep."

"Honestly, John."

"Sleep"

"Why?"

"Now."

"I don't feel like it, I'm perfectly fine. No reason to shut down my transport just because you're afraid I'll fall off a staircase in the dark."

"Thank you for that image, dear, I needed that right before bed. Now shut up and lie down before I tell Mycroft."

"Why on earth would I care?"

"I'll not talk to you tomorrow, for a whole day."

"If you think you can manage it, dear, go ahead."

"Git"

"John"

"Prat"

"John"

"Sleep."

"John"

John grabbed Sherlock by the arm and tugged. John, being the bigger of the two, managed to pull Sherlock up far enough to tuck the blankets successfully around the smaller boy. Sherlock grumbled the entire time, but let him. John then wrapped his arms around Sherlock's pointy frame. "Let go of me."

"No."

"…fine"

"Goodnight to you, too, dear."