A collab fic between myself and 'The Virtue of the Bored' (.net/u/3117037/The_Virtue_of_the_Bored) Who pretty much wrote the entire first chapter~

Unfortunetly we dont own Sherlock or Harry Potter, but if we did it would go like this:

In a train station, you're always surrounded by people. Never will you encounter a time when there is silence. The people there all have business; they all have a history.

The old man sitting on the bench has nowhere to go. He has no wife anymore, and can't join her just yet. Instead, he wastes his afternoons watching the trains.

The gaggles of children standing on the platform's edge were waiting for the train; the only family they know is coming back today. They've been waiting for this day for the three months she'd been gone.

And the flock of men and women in robes… well, it was obvious where they were going.

This is what Sherlock liked; he liked to deduce what was happening. He didn't see the people; he saw a spark of mystery.

People were dull; their spark was not.

His brother was definitely dull. Mycroft had been blathering on about something inane for the past ten minutes. He couldn't guarantee what, but judging by how far he was puffing out his chest, he could take a guess.

"Sherlock, I'm head boy. I can't have my brother causing more disturbances this year."

And there it was. This old tango again… Heaven forbid the eccentric younger brother of the oh-so perfect Mycroft Holmes cause a scandal.

Icy blue eyes met stormy grey. "Surprisingly, I don't aim to make anyone aware that you're my brother. I'd be happy if they thought we weren't related," Sherlock replied, casting a withering glance up at Mycroft.

Mycroft glanced up at the giant clock that hung above Platform 8 of King's Cross Station. "I have to be in the Prefect compartment—"

"You'll be sorely missed."

"—and I don't want to hear any complaints. I don't care how bored you are. You must not upset the other passengers, and do not try and corrupt the younger students. You're a Ravenclaw for pity's sake; act like one."

Sherlock smirked slightly and stepped toward the gathering congregation of teenagers. He ran a hand through his hair; his mother often remarked that his matt of obsidian locks was almost as dark as his house's name sake.

Sherlock was, after all, the quintessential Ravenclaw—quick-witted, intelligent, sharp, attentive… whereas Mycroft would have been better-suited for Slytherin. It still annoyed him that Mycroft managed to hide his true nature from the Sorting Hat. The smarmy git.

"Shouldn't we be going? I'd hate for you to miss your meeting," Sherlock said.

"You're only worrying when you're innocent. Let's go."

Without any of the hesitation of the younger students who stared at the wall of Platform 9, the Holmes brothers stepped through the passage to Platform 9 and ¾.

There was a quaint charm to the hidden platform. No matter how modern its King's Cross equivalent became, Platform 9 and ¾ would always remain the ever-constant station of a more Romanticised time, where the steam engine provided a chance for the impossible dreamers.

Sherlock would never be amongst them. He didn't have dreams. He had nightmares which transcended sleep.

"Sherlock, it's time to board," Mycroft said softly.

Nodding numbly, Sherlock stepped on the train, and far away from the front of the train; away from Mycroft. He ignored the scared looks from the younger students (he'd been reliably informed that he looked like a vengeful spectre with his pale skin and his permanent brooding expression) and the scornful glares of his class-mates. Everyone knew Sherlock Holmes.

The genius.

The prodigy.

The freak.

Stealing past the bustle of people trying to find seats, Sherlock couldn't help but smirk a little. He opened the door that would lead to the driver's compartment, and then climbed up the ladder, just as the train started to move off, the shrill shriek of the train's whistle deafening him momentarily.

It wasn't exactly first class, but at least it was quiet; peaceful; solitary.

Elsewhere, toward the front of the train, a small blond boy was peering thoughtfully in to his companion's bag, rummaging about carefully. "I can't find it," he said finally.

His friend, a much taller boy with oak coloured hair and sun-kissed skin, sighed and turn to the young girl beside him. He did a number of strange motions with his hands, each one very rapid and elaborate, but also careful and deliberate. The younger girl, who looked an awful lot like the oak-haired boy, shrugged in a rather overly flamboyant way and returned the gestures with her own, quicker signals.

"Sorry, John. Milly's sure she packed them for you," he said.

The blond boy, John Watson, smiled sweetly at Milly. "Cheers, Greg. Tell her I'm grateful?"

Greg muttered something about being used as a translator, and did the appropriate sign language. Milly beamed widely at him; even without her voice, her facial expression always told what she was thinking.

"So, captain Lestrade," John said, "How tough are you making try-outs this year? I don't think my broom can handle another try-out á la Brian."

Greg laughed boisterously. "Yeah, that was a bloody fiasco and a half. Still, it was funny watching Weasley fall over the hoop. Only he could make it look cool."

"Where is Charlie?" John asked, as though he'd just noticed the absence of the flaming ginger.

"Oh, his brothers start this year; you know…the evil twins he goes on about. Him and Percy are sitting with them to make sure nothing kicks off."

John nodded and sat back. "Right and why aren't you at the Prefect meeting?"

"And leave you with Milly? No chance, mate."

John chuckled and looked out the window. The dark clouds overhead looked heavy, angry… ready to burst at any moment.

"I still don't see why you didn't go to Diagon Alley before yesterday," Greg said, his voice doing that scolding thing it usually did when he disapproved.

"I just didn't."

"You've had all summer to do it."

"I know."

"You're the prepared one. What the hell, man? You could have walked to Hogwarts from your house."

"Yeah, funnily enough, I know."

"Then why—"

"Drop it!" John yelled, glaring at Greg.

With that outburst of unjustifiable frustration, the heavens opened, and rain fell in streams of colour. This was why John loved the rain; it was surprisingly colourful once you got past the grey sky.

Milly looked at the boys and waved her hands at them rapidly. Greg smiled and ruffled her hair. "Alright, Watson. It's a secret. I get it."

John nodded and turned to gaze out the window.

The British summer time was supposedly "delightfully dull" according to the old woman who ran the post office in the nearby Muggle town. John didn't see that. He adored the rain, but didn't think it had any right to overcast his summer. Maybe he should move away after Hogwarts; somewhere sunny, and warm; somewhere with excitement.

They sat like that for a while, conversing about everything and nothing. Milly left at some point to change in to her Slytherin uniform, leaving the boys alone for a good ten minutes.

"Congrats on making Prefect," John said, sporting his trademark lop-sided grin.

"Yeah, just what I needed; more stuff to worry about," Greg huffed, throwing himself back on the chair.