A Study in Magic
by Books of Change
Warning/Notes: This is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline has been shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender has changed for the sake of the plot. Readers beware!
Chapter One: The Unexpected Discovery
When Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, travelled to London to interview Harry Watson, prospective wizard student, she was in the mindset of performing a very familiar if stressful annual routine. Consequently she was unprepared for the surprise that was waiting behind the doors of 221B Baker Street. Namely, a little black haired boy who had a hauntingly familiar face and green eyes, and a thin lightning shaped scar on his forehead. So shocked was she at the sight of him, she turned around, dashed into to nearest hidden corner and vanished, leaving a confused Harry standing behind the threshold.
Ten minutes later she barged into the office of Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of aforementioned Hogwarts School of etc., etc., without knocking. Dumbledore stared in quiet astonishment as the normally prim and proper McGonagall stood heaving before his desk with her square glasses askew, black summer jacket only half buttoned, white silk blouse crumpled, and still wearing a knee-length black pencil skirt.
"Yes Minerva?" Dumbledore asked.
McGonagall planted both hands on the desk, as if to brace herself.
"Albus…!" she started.
She didn't continue. Dumbledore studied her for a moment, then conjured a silver tray of tea and crumpets, poured a cup and offered it to the distressed Deputy Headmistress. She drained it in one go. Afterwards, McGonagall looked visibly more composed.
"Well, then," Dumbledore said. "Please take a seat. Then tell me how I can help you."
"I'm sorry, Albus," McGonagall said as she sat down. She took a deep breath. "Well, as you know, I've been making rounds to visit this year's prospective Muggle-born students. Today I went to London. I met Mr. Dean Thomas and Miss Hermione Granger and delivered their letters. Then I went to visit Mr. Harry Watson."
She paused. Dumbledore nodded in encouragement.
"Young Mr. Watson opened the door for me. And … Albus, I couldn't believe my eyes. In fact, I'm inclined to believe I was seeing things. But the boy was a spitting image of James Potter, and … he had Harry Potter's scar."
Silence reigned in the office for a span of a minute, during which Dumbledore looked absolutely gobsmacked.
"…Are you sure?" he whispered at length.
"Yes. No. I don't know! I left before I could properly confirm, but that's what I saw."
Dumbledore ran a hand over his moustache. The hand was not quite steady and his eyes held a different light from his normal twinkle.
"After all this time," he whispered. "After all that effort to locate him, could this be…?"
Then abruptly he stood up.
"We have no time to lose!" said Dumbledore as he walked briskly around his desk. "Thank you for alerting me immediately. I only hope Harry was not so alarmed that he won't speak to us again. You still have the letter?"
"Then let us go deliver it, you and I. Now please excuse me, I must go and dress more appropriately!"
Another ten minutes later Dumbledore and McGonagall noiselessly appeared in Baker Street Station, the former dressed in a Victorian three-piece suit of plum velvet and the latter in her formal black suit and white blouse (no longer creased). In less than five minutes, they made it to 221B. Dumbledore firmly knocked the door.
A well-aged woman dressed in a smart purple dress opened the door this time. She blinked, as if trying to dispel the illusion that was Dumbledore and McGonagall. Dumbledore made a polite, most proper bow.
"Good afternoon, Madam," he said. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. My colleague and I have an appointment with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson."
The woman blinked again. Then she beamed at the two.
"Oh, you must be the school officials John was talking about this morning!" she said, "Come in, come in!"
She beckoned them inside the flat, led them upstairs and knocked the first door to appear directly in front of her.
"Yoo-hoo! Sherlock, John, you have visitors!"
She opened the door without further ado. Beyond the door was a spacious yet cluttered sitting room. There were two tall windows on the opposite side, filtering in the last dregs of daylight. Between the windows stood a polished wooden table buried underneath stacks of books, magazines and other paper paraphernalia. High above the table hung a cow's skull wearing headphones. A couple of standing lamps and a battered grey leather couch framed the wall on the right, and two built-in and overburdened bookshelves framed the wall on the left. Between the built-in bookshelves were a mirror and a mantelpiece. A human skull graced the closer end of the mantelpiece, and a jack-knife pinned a small pile of mail to its wooden surface. Beneath the mantelpiece was a proper fireplace, not one of those Muggle contraptions that generated heat but no real flame. In front of the fireplace were two armchairs, one made of red fabric with a green tartan blanket thrown on top, and the other had leather seats and a metal chrome frame. The armchairs were already occupied by two people— Sherlock and John, presumably. The tow-haired one wearing an oatmeal jumper and blue jeans was sitting in the red chair, and the young man with black curly hair wearing a silk shirt of deep purple and a dark suit of modern cut sat on the leather chair. The blue-grey eyes of the latter scrutinized the visitors. The former turned around and started at the sight of Dumbledore.
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," said the tow-haired one, after a beat and standing up. "And hello. I'm John. John Watson."
Dumbledore shook the proffered hand.
"How do you do, John? I am Professor Albus Dumbledore. This is my colleague, Professor McGonagall."
"Oh. Uh, Hello," John shook hands with McGonagall. "Please take a seat. You can take my chair. Or the couch."
They did so, Dumbledore taking the vacated red armchair and McGonagall taking a seat at the couch. John relocated to the table between the windows and leaned against it, arms crossed. Mrs. Hudson went away, muttering something about dinner, just this once, she wasn't their housekeeper. Sherlock stayed where he was, silent and unmoving, as he watched the teachers' every move through unblinking eyes.
"Well, John, if you don't mind, I shall proceed without any further ado," Dumbledore started. "As mentioned in the letter, my colleague and I are here to offer Harry a place at my school. We believe Harry has the necessary gifts—"
"Is it normal for the headmaster to make these visitations?" Sherlock interrupted.
John frowned at Sherlock. Dumbledore just looked at him keenly.
"Normally, no. But we have been faculty long enough to have taught your age peers—Harry's parents generation, in other words."
Comprehension dawned on John's face.
"Harry looks like one of your old students, doesn't he?"
"Yes," said McGonagall, "I must apologise for my earlier behaviour, Dr. Watson, but when I came here twenty minutes ago, I was operating under the impression that Mr. Potter and his family were missing, presumed dead."
John nodded in understanding. "Must have been spooky."
"I hope he wasn't too alarmed."
"Harry's okay. He was more confused than anything."
Dumbledore smiled in a grandfatherly manner before opening his mouth to continue. But he was interrupted again.
"This is a waste of time," Sherlock growled. "You're not here to present. You're here to convince. So cut the theatrics and do what you really meant to do."
Dumbledore closed his mouth and regarded Sherlock thoughtfully. John looked torn between wanting to apologise for Sherlock, explain his behaviour or berate him.
"I see you are an uncommonly intelligent man," said Dumbledore calmly. "What do you think I'm really here for?"
Sherlock smirked at the implied challenge and partial confirmation.
"The question isn't what. The question is who. Who are you exactly? You're the headmaster of a boarding school, and Professor McGonagall is your deputy. So far, obvious. The school in which you work in uses an old building. Medieval castle, probably, definitely made of stone and marble and has a large grass courtyard. You haven't just taught my generation. You also taught my parents' generation at the very least. Both of you wear robes and broad-brim hats regularly and use quills instead of pens, parchment instead of paper. But the key item that identifies who and what you are is in your jacket pocket; the instrument through which you are able to, for the lack of better word, perform spells such as 'stupify' and 'obliviate'."
Dumbledore beamed at Sherlock, while McGonagall openly gaped at him. John went from regarding Dumbledore uneasily to giving Sherlock exasperated looks.
"Your school is specifically designed for training individuals who have the power to perform 'spells'. But that's not all. You don't just train children and send them back. No, your school acts as a gateway, so that a child possessing this power can enter a hidden society entirely made up of people possessing this power. Your job is to convince those not born in the society to join it—by offering a place in your school."
Dumbledore's smile grew wider. "Anything else?"
"You are a prominent man in your world," said Sherlock, "Ever since the late 19th century, if I'm not mistaken, but you've eschewed a more public role. As for this visit," he briefly eyed John. "Harry's reintegration to your world is a task so vital that one as prominent as you came here in person, and you will not leave until you've convinced us to leave Harry's future in your hands."
And with that Sherlock leaned back, palms together under his chin, and fixing Dumbledore's twinkling blue eyes with his own pale-coloured ones.
"You know," Dumbledore said, after the brief staring contest. "When one lives as long as I do, and have done this interview as many times as I have, one starts to think there is no possible permutation one hasn't experienced."
Sherlock nodded once, full of impatience. Dumbledore smiled at him benignly.
"As you've gathered, Mr. Holmes, I'm the headmaster of a very special school. This school, Hogwarts, teaches young people how to harness and control a power which we call Magic."
Sherlock didn't even blink at the announcement that would normally lead to accusations of insanity or worse.
"I presume you call yourselves wizards and witches," he said.
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "And Harry is a wizard."
"Born or made?"
"Born. Magic is something either one has or does not have, though there are differences in talent for those who do."
"Pity," said Sherlock. Then he shrugged dismissively. "Did I get anything wrong?"
"I flatter myself for being rather well known," Dumbledore said (McGonagall coughed at this outrageous understatement). "Undoubtedly Harry will find the reasons should he consent to go to Hogwarts, which, as you said, is a boarding school situated in a castle up in Scotland. I assume you figured out the existence of the grounds from the grass stains on Professor McGonagall's shoes. I have taught two generations of Potters." He turned to look at John, who was doing a great job appearing like inconspicuous furniture. "Harry took your name after the adoption?"
John nodded. "He didn't like the sound of Harry Holmes."
"I also gather I am not your first encounter with Magic folk."
"You'd be the sixth," Sherlock confirmed. "For John. Second for me."
Dumbledore nodded. "And I suppose you guessed the hidden existence of our world from these encounters and the conspicuous lack of public knowledge of thereof."
"I never guess," said Sherlock.
"He simply observes," John explained, full of fond exasperation, "Then deduces."
"Ah," said Dumbledore, "My apologies. So how did you deduce the parchment and quills and robes, and that I've been around for more than a century, Mr. Holmes?"
"Your clothes; the cut and fabric aren't replicas, they're authentic and directly from the period. You're an educator and a bachelor. You won't waste money on a restoration, so it's well kept genuine. Could have been inherited, but it's tailored to fit your frame. Unlikely you've altered it since its purchase, certainly not through normal means, so you've bought for yourself when it was current. The quills are easy, you know it already."
"The calluses on your fingers and the ink marks suggest frequent use of a narrow instrument dipped in ink, not the usual pen and pencil. The letter Professor McGonagall has in her pocket is made of parchment, not paper. Legends of witches and wizards generally end around the medieval ages, Renaissance at most. Ergo, your world went into hiding around that period, and the seclusion was so complete that the use of quill and parchment continued, as well as robes, which were apparel of choice for academia."
Dumbledore shook his head, chuckling.
"You are truly one of a kind, Mr. Holmes," he said. "I must guard myself against you if I wish to keep the Statute of Secrecy."
"Spot on then," Sherlock probed, looking rather smug.
"All except for the robes," said Dumbledore. "It's not just limited to Academia, but most wizards and witches."
Sherlock looked put-out. "Always something," he muttered.
"Hang on, you mean Harry being important enough for you to come in person is true?" John exclaimed.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "But I think it would be best if Harry were here to hear that part of the story."
"I'll get him," said Sherlock, much to John's apparent surprise. He leaped out of his chair and strode out of the sitting room. The remaining three listened to the sound of his trek upstairs.
"Harry!" they eventually heard him shout. "Good news! You're going to a school of Magic!"
John twitched in wordless outrage. After sputtering around on the spot, unable to articulate, John slumped.
"This happens often?" Dumbledore asked sympathetically.
"All the time," John muttered. "Sorry about him. He's always like that."
"We have all sorts around the Magical world, too, though none so brilliant," Dumbledore remarked.
"You're no slouch yourself," John demurred, "People normally don't react to him like you."
"How do people normally react?"
"They tell him to piss off."
Dumbledore was still laughing when Sherlock came back, a familiar-looking little boy in tow.
While Albus and Mr. Holmes had their intellectual/verbal sparring match, Minerva privately worried about the sort of influence Mr. Holmes had on poor Harry. James and Lily had been bright, but no where near like Sherlock Holmes. What if the man cowed Harry's fledgling intellect by his sheer brilliance?
When she saw Harry standing uncertainly at the door, kneading his shirt between his hands and looking warily about, her worst fears appeared to have been justified.
Then Dr. Watson walked straight to Harry, arms swinging like a marching solider. Harry's face lit up and relaxed as John drew near and wrapped an arm around him. As Mr. Holmes reclaimed his seat, Dr. Watson pushed the unoccupied chair right next to the sitting room door closer to the circle of people, directed Harry to sit in it, and stood to Harry's right, left arm loosely draped across the boy's narrow shoulders.
Albus watched this little interlude with twinkling eyes.
"Hello, Harry," said Albus gently. "It's good to see you. I'm Albus Dumbledore."
Minerva took a good look at Harry as Albus talked to the boy. He looked so much James, and yet not. He was small and thin; much smaller than she ever remembered James being, and certainly on the tiny end of her personal size scale for first years. His face was paler and narrower, the cheek bones more prominent, and his green eyes behind the wire-frame glasses seemed too large for his face. Besides the eyes, which were all Lily, she saw hints of Harry's mother on his nose and chin. His black hair was all James: growing in all directions, though the mess was somewhat mitigated due to its length. It was short-cropped, just like Dr. Watson's. But what struck her most was the deep solemnity bordering on sadness in his expression, and the grave eyes that showed glimpses of a soul too old for a child to house.
Speaking of graveness, Albus turned exactly that.
"So your aunt didn't tell you anything about Hogwarts or your parents."
"No. Not really. She told me that they died in a car crash, but Sherlock said she was lying since there aren't any reports of car crashes they could've died in."
Albus shook his head sadly.
"Indeed. Well, I'm afraid Mr. Holmes' deductions are correct. Your parents didn't die in a car crash. They were killed by a very evil man. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Harry, did you know that you are a wizard?"
Harry goggled at the Headmaster.
Minerva smiled faintly at the familiar reaction. This was her favourite part of the interview; making known to the Muggle-born child what they really were.
As it turned out, it didn't take much to convince Harry of the existence of Magic and witches and wizards. Minerva wasn't surprised. She didn't think someone of Mr. Holmes's calibre and temperament would've failed to notice Harry's bouts of accidental magic and not experiment. Indeed, Mr. Holmes confirmed her suspicions when he rattled off the things Harry had done and was wilfully able to do: summoning balls of light, re-growing hair, levitating objects and disappearing and reappearing from one place to another. Nothing too unusual—though the instinctive Apparition was an impressive amount of magic— until Mr. Holmes mentioned Harry's ability to talk to snakes.
"He can talk to snakes?" Albus repeated in mild surprise.
"Had a whole conversation with a Burmese python in the London Zoo," said Mr. Holmes. "Why? Is this unusual?"
"It is rare, but not unheard of," said Albus.
"Will it cause problems?" Dr. Watson asked.
Albus stroked his beard.
"The ability itself can be quite useful, but I think it is best kept under wraps. Snakes do not have good reputations, even in our world, and having the ability to speak to them will be regarded with suspicion."
Mr. Holmes narrowed his eyes at Albus and then at Minerva, clearly suspecting a great deal was left unsaid. Minerva tried very hard to look merely concerned and not completely shocked. To avoid Mr. Holmes's unsettling and (she was starting to suspect) all-seeing gaze, she turned her attention to Harry—a bit difficult, as Mr. Holmes was quite the attention hog—and found the boy looking distinctly troubled.
Dr. Watson noticed it too. "What are you thinking, Harry?"
Harry started kneading the front of his shirt again, an oddly endearing and heartbreaking gesture.
"What is magic? I mean, are there good wizards and bad wizards, and good magic and bad magic?"
Minerva could derive several implications from this question. Mr. Holmes said Dr. Watson had no less than six encounters with wizards including theirs. She could easily imagine Harry being present for most if not all of them, judging from the way he latched onto the doctor. This past year all of the Obliviators and Aurors sent to locate the missing Harry Potter had either returned stunned or obliviated via spells cast from their own team-mate's wands. Seeing as Dr. Watson retained the memory of these encounters to tell the tale to Mr. Holmes, it was clear the doctor had emerged from all attempts at memory modification untouched by magic. While it was difficult to imagine one who looked so cuddly, mild and harmless putting up a (no doubt) vicious fight, it was obvious Dr. Watson could and did. These fights would have left a lasting and, unfortunately, negative impression of magic on Harry. At least, a negative impression of the sort of magic other magical folk did.
Minerva knew they had reached a critical point in Harry's magical education. What they said or did next would make or break it. What would Albus do?
Albus leaned forward, hands clasped together as if in prayer or supplication.
"Ah, Harry," he said. "You ask a very difficult question. I can't tell you what magic is because I don't know. Perhaps it was a gift. Perhaps it just is. Whatever it is, we have it and we use it. There are magics out there so dark one cannot even speak of them. There are also magics so good one can scarcely believe that they exist. There are also dark witches and wizards—of the like that killed your parents. But standing against them are people like your mother and father, who died to protect you from the darkest wizard of this century. In many ways magic is like a hand: it can either stretch out and comfort, or curl up and make a fist. Ultimately it is our choices, I believe, that either makes us, or magic, good or evil."
For a while Harry said nothing. He held onto Albus' gaze for a moment, and then looked down at his hands. His expression was thoughtful, but no longer troubled. Then he nodded to himself, as if Albus confirmed something private in his mind.
"So my mum and dad were killed by an evil wizard," said Harry.
"Yes," said Albus. "His name is Lord Voldemort." (Minerva flinched.) "And it is to him I now turn my narrative."
Harry listened with rapt attention as Albus gave him a brief (and age appropriate) summary of You-Know-Who's rise to power and his unexpected destruction. He flinched when Albus told him the manner of his parents' death, and looked troubled again when he learned about his part in You-Know-Who's demise and his consequent rise to fame.
"But I don't remember what I did," Harry protested. "There's no way I could've done anything. And I don't know anything about magic. I'll just disappoint everyone."
Here Minerva noted the barely noticeable grim satisfaction in Albus. This humble attitude was what Albus wanted to cultivate in Harry, and risked ten dark years of dubious Muggle care for it. Minerva had little doubt living in the magical world, aware of his fame, would've made lessons in humility very difficult, if not impossible, and she was glad Albus' gamble had brought the hoped-for winnings. But she was still uneasy. What about the damages, Albus? She thought. I see them already. Was there really no other way?
But now it was too late to speculate, and Minerva had a child to reassure.
"Don't worry Mr. Potter," she said briskly. "Whatever it is you can do so far, knowingly or otherwise, does not change the fact that all magical children start at Hogwarts. You may worry that your Muggle upbringing puts you in a disadvantage, but neither familiarity nor long magical heritage translates to greater magical achievement. In fact," she looked at him pointedly. "Your mother, who was Muggle-born, was the most talented witch of her year."
That assured Harry a little, but not as much as Minerva hoped. She looked at Albus for additional support, but oddly, he remained silent.
"You don't have to go if you don't want to," said Dr. Watson, much to Minerva's dismay. "But don't make your decision based on what other people think. No one is worth that kind of honour."
Harry looked at the doctor for moment. Then a slow, small smile spread across his face. The sight took Minerva's breath away, and made her eyes well up in tears.
"Don't give anything the honour of ruining your life?" the boy said, as if he was quoting someone.
"Yeah," said Dr. Watson.
Harry smile broadened. Minerva sighed in relief. Clearly, whatever the faults of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (and she was very sure it covered an ocean), Dr. Watson's virtues more than made up for them.
Minerva had no time to savour the moment however.
"How exactly does magic work in terms of genetics?" Mr. Holmes asked (Minerva was no longer surprised at the man's capacity for rudeness.) "Obviously some children inherit them through non-magical parents. Is it recessive?"
"I'm surprised Harry is still famous," Dr. Watson remarked. "I mean, the whole vanquishing evil Dark Lord at the height of his powers is pretty darn fame worthy, yeah, but it's been ten years. Harry hasn't been around to fuel the rumour mill or the gutter press for that long." A pause. "Do you magic folk have gutter press?"
"I subscribe to the theory that Muggle-borns receive their magic through their Squib ancestors, non-magical children born from magical parents," Albus said, answering in order. "And you must understand: Voldemort was active for no less than forty years, ten of which his influence was felt all across Magical Europe. So his destruction was an historic moment, and Harry's contribution was comparable to that of famous war heroes. And yes, John, we do have tabloids. In fact," he chuckled a bit, "most things in your world you will find its equivalent in ours. Except the Internet—I don't think we have that yet!"
"Oh," said Dr. Watson, taken aback. "Okay. So you don't have magical Internet? Shame."
"Would you be interested in inventing it, Harry?" Albus asked, moustache quivering.
"Oh, I don't know," Harry said shyly. "Sherlock tried to teach me computer programming, but … Well, I'm like John. Anything more than browsing and media and Word, something inside me just dies."
"Alas," said Albus, regretfully. "But there's still hope. The magical solution may be completely different after all."
Mr. Holmes asked a few more questions on the mechanics of magic, something Muggles always had trouble grasping. Dr. Watson, in the meantime, nudged Harry and gave him an inquiring look. Harry looked back, and Minerva saw the question brewing in his head. Watson made an encouraging gesture, to which Harry responded by looking nervously at Minerva and Albus, the headmaster in particular.
"Sir?" Harry finally asked. "Can you show us Magic?"
Albus smiled at him.
"What would you like to see, Harry?" he asked kindly.
"Can you—" Harry hesitated. "Can you fix John's shoulder?"
Albus scrutinized Harry, who reddened under his gaze, and then looked at Dr. Watson with raised eyebrows. Dr. Watson shrugged. Only then did Minerva realise the left shoulder was smaller than the right, and its movements were stiff and awkward.
"I got shot in Afghanistan," Dr. Watson explained. "Two years ago. Then last year I almost got blown up. Long story. It's not so bad that I can't pick things up, but I can't practice surgery anymore."
"Hmmm," said Albus thoughtfully. "Well, I'm not a healer, so I don't know how much I can do. But if the damage was only due to physical causes…"
He pulled out his wand. Harry held his breath as Albus pointed it at Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes griped both armrests and looked ready to launch out of his chair. Dr. Watson, besides a clenched jaw, looked composed.
Dr. Watson's whole body trembled and the left shoulder subtly shifted, as if finding its rightful place. A few more repeats of the incantation and the entire arm settled and grew firm and balanced. Once the tremors subsided, Dr. Watson gingerly lifted the whole limb towards the heavens, flexing fingers and rolling the shoulder while at it.
"…Blimey," said Dr. Watson breathlessly. "Blimey."
Mr. Holmes was at Dr. Watson's side at once. He grabbed the mended arm—carefully, Minerva noted—and moved it around, testing its mobility. The more he tested, the more amazed he became. But Harry was beside himself.
"Will I learn how to do that at Hogwarts!?" the boy asked, full of excitement.
"Perhaps not immediately," Albus replied, obviously warmed at Harry's first display of child-like enthusiasm, "And perhaps not directly. But you'll learn everything you need to know in order to get there."
Harry immediately turned to Dr. Watson, his green eyes sparkling.
"John! John, can I go?!"
"Huh?" Dr. Watson look at him, rather awkwardly as Mr. Holmes was attempting an arm lock. "Yeah, sure, if you want to. Go learn healing stuff. Or invent magical Internet. Whatever you like. Just come back and tell us all about it. Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock!" Dr. Watson slipped out of Mr. Holmes's grasp with an eel like twist. "STOP IT! You're embarrassing me!"
Mr. Holmes ceased his manhandling. Minerva noted his eyes were shining and he was grinning from ear to ear.
"Dinner!" he declared, as if it was a lovely gift he wished to bestow on a bemused Albus and an alarmed Minerva. "You must stay for dinner. Tonight. You want to know how we adopted Harry anyway."
"Er, Sherlock? We've been living off takeaway for the last three days, and I'm pretty sure we've cleaned out the last bit of it yesterday."
"Mrs. Hudson is bringing up French Onion and Italian bread. We can call for Chinese if we need more."
"Great. Kudos to Mrs. Hudson. Now what part of 'living off takeaway' and 'cleaned out' did you not get?"
"While your adoptive parents figure out the intricacies and feasibility of dinner," Albus said to Harry, as the dialogue between Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson degenerated into a fight, "why don't you read your Hogwarts letter?"
Final Notes: This is my second bit of fanfiction in years. (I've been writing, just not fanfic.) Please be gentle.