Chapter the First: In which we meet an invisible boy

The Holmes family, all in all, was absolutely enormous. There was an astounding amount of aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers, siblings and cousins, nieces and nephews. The extent of the family, if you chose to attempt to name them all, was mind-boggling. But if you ask sixteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes, he'd tell you that none of them truly mattered to him. To him, they simply existed,. They existed as dull people who insisted on pinching his cheeks – and if that wasn't irritating enough – they teased him about his intelligence and often squealed something akin to "Good Merlin, Sherly, you've grown so much!", to which they'd receive the immediate response of, "Please don't call me Sherly, that's a god-awful name," or "Yes, [insert name of relative here], people tend to do that, especially within my age range," drawled out in a bored tone.

Being the only child in the Holmes family who preferred the company of books and empty rooms to people, Sherlock was – more often than not – found by himself. Yet it never bothered him. The older boys and girls (like Mycroft) who doted after the adults, tried to pick on up any helpful hints they could to be just as successful as their predecessors. The younger Holmes' were often found playing on the grounds, playing hide-and-seek or Quidditch or Exploding Snap – perpetually idiotic games, in Sherlock's opinion. But he liked being alone. Alone made him feel safe. Because while everyone else was milling around the manor or around the grounds, Sherlock was found in the shade of the biggest oak tree, hidden behind piles of books or behind stands of sheet music.

From anyone else's point of view, Sherlock Holmes' life couldn't possibly be as boring as he often made it out to be. Being a wizard, born into a wizarding family, he shouldn't have been complaining about how mind-numbing everything was. His family were pure-bloods, as they liked to call themselves, and they prided themselves on their magical lineage. They all consisted of Slytherins, born and bred. If they attended Hogwarts, they were Slytherins, for Merlin's sake, and they refused to accept any different. They held high positions in the government, high positions in any place, really.

Interestingly enough, the Holmes' were fine with marrying into other pure-blood families, as long as they weren't the humiliating Hufflepuffs. Hosting lavish parties was a Holmes specialty, parties with masquerades, usually a celebration before the children left for Hogwarts or Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, wherever they attended school. Sherlock hated them with a burning passion. He hated socializing, especially with family members who were so normal and ordinary. Family gatherings made him want to blow his brains out with a carefully placed spell.

Anyone who met Sherlock knew straightaway he was different. On the outside, he was normal enough. He was a pale boy with unruly dark hair (which really didn't make him look any less pale) and eyes that seemed like they could hold the universe inside them. They never decided on a color, fading from sea-green to ice-blue to smooth-silver in a matter of days. His eyes were the one feature that made him stand out the most, if you didn't count the high, sharp cheekbones that gave him an air of mystery. He was tall for his age, having surpassed the trademark Holmes growth spurt. He was handsome, in a strange, selective way, and his whole face lit up when he smiled, which was rarely. Sixteen years old, and he was the strangest anomaly that had ever been created in the Holmes family. A beautiful boy with an intelligent mind. The latter is harder to recognize, until he opened his mouth and spoke.

Puberty had done Sherlock well. His voice was nearly a low purr, sounding like a cello, its strings being played with slow, heartbreaking movements of the bow. He talked quickly, intelligent, so low that you could hardly hear him. But the intelligence didn't appear over time. No, when he was a child, he was just as intelligent and sarcastic as he was now.

Ever since he was eleven, the Holmes' had feared that Sherlock would be the only Holmes that attended Hogwarts to not make it into Slytherin House. And, much to Sherlock's relief and their utter dismay, they were right. Yet, being the first Ravenclaw in Holmes history meant the entire family talked about him when they thought he couldn't hear. He heard it all, though, as he stared down at his plate during the last party before school started. Their whispers weren't as quiet as they had originally thought.

"He knows spells that even I don't know, and I work at the Ministry! He's only sixteen! It's abnormal, Crystal, I swear."

"How come his eyes change colors? Is he a Metamorphagus?"

"…cold, unfeeling. It's unnatural in a boy that young, Anita. I know he's your son, and this is a personal matter, but is there anything that could have happened in his life to make him so…odd?"

"Put your hand down, it's not nice to point at him, Alice."

"Sherlock, eat your dinner."

The boy in question looked up at this last voice, the voice of his elder brother Mycroft. A person with a high position in the Ministry of Magic, Mycroft was recognized well in the community outside of Sherlock's home. But here, both he and Sherlock were overshadowed by the brilliance and success of the rest of their family. They were invisible.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said quietly, focusing on systematically mashing his peas into his potatoes with his fork. "I ate yesterday."

"Yes, and since yesterday you've holed yourself up in your room, playing your violin nonstop. You're supposed to eat every day, you know." Mycroft frowned at his little brother, watching him play around with his food. "Grow up, Sherlock. You're sixteen. Pushing your food around on your plate doesn't make it look like you've eaten anything."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped back, sighing and setting his fork down. "I just don't feel good. May I be excused?" The last question was directed toward his mother, but she didn't hear him. She never did.

"Just eat the bread, Sher," Mycroft coaxed, pushing the roll of Italian bread at his brother. "You know Mummy gets worried."

They both looked over to Mrs Holmes, who was ignoring the both of them, obviously and painfully. Sherlock's eyes grew stormy, sad, but Mycroft's were resigned. They both knew that Mycroft was lying. Mrs Holmes had never once been worried for Sherlock. As soon as he had turned three, she ignored him completely, leaving him in the hands of his seven-year-old brother.

"Right," Sherlock muttered, standing up from the table and leaving the room. The whispers hushed as he walked by, then started up again, full of raucous laughter and stinging remarks. The family where they don't belong.

Mycroft stood as well, sighing, and followed his brother out. He touched his mother's arm as he left, explaining where he was going and that Sherlock wasn't feeling that well, and that he was going to make sure he's okay.

His mother waved him away with a careless, dismissive hand, continuing to gossip about various members of their family, smiling and laughing, the way she never did with her sons.

Mycroft found Sherlock in the hallway and stopped him with a wrist, tugging his arm back as they passed a boy that neither of them recognized. He was obviously from another family, one of the families that their parents had invited over for the party. Mycroft passed him and learned everything he could from a swift glance. Family of Gryffindors, elder homosexual sister. Same year as Sherlock. Doesn't understand French. Correction, Muggle-born, elder homosexual sister in Gryffindor House. The boy had sandy blonde hair and a short, sturdy stature, with kind eyes and a warm smile.

When Sherlock turned and swore when he saw Mycroft, the boy shrank into the shadows and watched the exchange of the two brothers babbling in French, his dark jacket held tightly between his arms.

"Sherlock, tu ne peux pas quitter la fête," Mycroft snapped at his brother, arms crossed. "Si tu ne mange rien, tu vas finir par tomber malade ou mourir ! Tu ne penses pas que mère sera un peu inquiète à ce moment là ?" Sherlock, you can't just leave the party. If you don't eat something, you could get sick or die! Don't you think Mummy will be worried, even then?

Sherlock folded his arms back, stepping up closer to Mycroft, taking relish in the fact that he was as tall as he was. "Ne sois pas idiot, Mycroft. Je veux juste aller à l'école, sortir de cette maison stupide. Toi, mère, et tout le monde dans cette famille me rendez malade, je n'ai pas besoin de ne pas manger pour que cela arrive. Vous êtes tous horribles!" Don't be an idiot, Mycroft. I just want to go to school, get away from this stupid house. You and mother and everyone else in this family make me sick, I don't need to not eat for that to happen. You're all horrible.

The boy hiding in the shadows shifted uncomfortably. He really only wanted to get back from the party, and away from these arguing brothers. He froze as Sherlock looked over Mycroft's shoulder and tilted his head at him. "Nous sommes surveillés, cher frère," he muttered, and Mycroft turned as well. We are being watched, dear brother.

"Who are you?" Mycroft asked, slipping seamlessly into English, his arms still crossed.

"Erm," the boy stuttered. "My name's John Watson. Were you just speaking French?" He tugged on the sleeve of his jumper, making Sherlock blink and study him even more carefully. So he was self-conscious.

Sherlock stepped forward and answered as Mycroft looked at him. "Yes, we were. Our grandmother is from France and doesn't understand a bit of English. We had to learn when we visited her a few summers ago." He smirked as Mycroft muttered something about dessert and left as quickly as he could. "Laissez un peu du gâteau pour les autres invités, gras," he called after Mycroft, who made a rude gesture over his shoulder. Leave some cake for the other guests, fatty.

"You seem very fluent at it, for just learning it a few summers ago," John commented, still tugging at his jumper.

"Yes, well. We had to adapt quickly," Sherlock said, dismissing the compliment. He pointed at John's hand, that was fumbling with the sleeve of the oatmeal-coloured jumper. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Playing with your jumper."

"I'm not!"

"Yes, you are."

John looked down at his sleeve and pursed his lips in a sort of pout. "Right. Well. Nervous habit, I suppose."

Sherlock nodded, as if that explained everything, and clasped his hands together behind his back. "Have you already eaten at the party?" he asked politely, knowing that Mummy would be mortified if he didn't use manners on a complete stranger.

"Yeah, and I went to the bathroom and got lost on the way back."

Sherlock ran his hands through his closely cropped brownish hair and sighed. Oh, how the simple people could get lost because their short-term memory didn't do them justice. "Dining hall is down the stairs and to your right." He desperately wanted to take one critical look at this boy and deduce all he could about him, but there was something about John that made him want to give him his privacy.

John smiled at him, a warm, thankful smile. "Thanks. I didn't catch your name…?"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to meet you, John. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off for the night." Sherlock winked at the boy and disappeared through a door, leaving John with an empty corridor and a deliberating pout on his lips.

Then John sighed and swore under his breath, following behind the lanky boy curiously while shrugging on his jacket. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock jumped. "I didn't actually expect you to follow me," he said, narrowing his eyes at him.

"Yes, well." John cleared his throat. "There's no point in me going back to the table if I've already eaten, is there?"

"No," Sherlock said slowly, his eyebrows drawing together just slightly before relaxing into his normal impassive expression. "I suppose there's not." He continued to walk along, through countless corridors and down countless staircases, John trotting along beside him in comfortable silence.

After a few minutes, John seemed to come to a realization. "Wait, you said you're Sherlock Holmes! Mycroft Holmes' brother!" He looked proud of himself for figuring that out all on his own.

Sherlock scowled. "Good deduction. But I don't live in my brother's shadow, you know. I am my own person."

"You're the cleverest boy in school," John said, and the comment made Sherlock pause in his walking and look at John with an amazed look in his eye. So he didn't associate him with Mycroft?

"Yeah," John continued, still walking. Sherlock was trailing after him now, dumbfounded. "My friend, Mike Stamford, he's told me all about you. He says you can figure out things about people from a single glance. He says you can see a Slytherin from the way they stand and a Muggle aeroplane pilot by his left thumb. He says you call it the 'Science of Deduction'. What can you deduce about me?"

Sherlock looked him over, those words being the only permission he needed to indulge himself in John.

"I know your father is a Muggle, who fought in the Afghanistan War. 'How do you know that, Sherlock?'" he asked mockingly, pretending to be someone else asking the question. He pointed down. "Your shoes, hand-me-down, polished to a shine. They're not your shoes, they're too big, I can hear them clumping just slightly as you walk. Anyone who polishes their shoes to a shine like that are soldiers. Muggle ones at that. You also are wearing a pin that's just barely hidden by your jacket, a Muggle pin for bravery and sacrifice in the war. Father – dead. Obviously.

"Your sister is a Gryffindor, dating a girl named Clara. I know that because I've seen her around school with her girlfriend, wearing a Gryffindor tie, and that's not cheating that's noticing." He continued to speak, his voice low, gaining speed as he rattled off his deductions.

"She's a year older than you, an alcoholic, by the looks of your sweater, but does a good job of hiding it from your mother. Your mother is a Healer. 'How could you possibly know about the drinking?'" he predicted, then took a breath. "Your sweater, it's go stains on it and its obviously a hand-me-down from your elder sister, no offense. Stains are clearly both vomit and alcohol, and it still smells faintly of firewhisky. For a moment there, I thought that was your normal smell, but that doesn't make any sense, so process of elimination, your jumper.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, because you got into a car accident with your sister that you were injured in. You're John Watson, sixth year Hufflepuff, and you're only here because you were a) invited here by my family because frankly, they like too many parties and b) you wanted to get out of your house. Your therapist thinks you should move out when you turn seventeen, which is fairly soon, to reduce stress on yourself because its making your limp worse. You don't have a cane, at least not at this party, but you regularly walk with one when you're not at a party. You're too proud for that. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic, backing up the deduction that you were in a car accident most likely, you were raised by a Muggle, with your sister. She was drunk while it happened. 'How could you know about the therapist?' You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist."

John stared. He gaped. "That was. Amazing."

The taller boy frowned slightly. "You think so?" he deadpanned.

"Of course," John answered immediately, blushing a bit and rubbing at his face. "It was extraordinary. It was quite…extraordinary."

Sherlock hmmed something. "That's not what people normally say," he muttered as they reached the outside, looking around at the trees to avoid eye contact with John as they walked.

"What do people normally say?" John asked, looking at Sherlock, his eyes curious. It was a beautiful night outside, and all he was concerned about was looking at Sherlock, finding all he could about him.

Sherlock tilted his head so he was nearly looking at John. "Piss off."

John dissolved into giggled, covering his mouth in embarrassment. "Sorry," he apologized. "It's not really that funny."

Sherlock gave a tentative smile to John. "So why are you following me?" he asked, frowning a little bit. Nobody had ever been curious enough to follow him anywhere, never.

"I'm not really sure," John admitted. "I was bored, for one. And you were being all mysterious, with your cheekbones and the turned-up collar of your coat – " He cut himself off, his face flushing a bit. "And you looked like you were up to no good. I didn't realize that this was your place until a few minutes ago."

"You're an interesting boy, John Watson. Maybe I'll see you at Hogwarts."

And John and Sherlock continued to talk for the night, gazing up at the stars and whispering about their lives, their experiences at Hogwarts. John spoke of his sister, his lovely mum, his deceased father. He spoke of his desire to become a Healer, just like his mother, but he wanted to fight like his father. Sherlock spoke of his mother, his father, his brother, all in a detached manner. He spoke of how he was invisible, how he loved Hogwarts, his second home. They were both opening up to a boy they had just met that night. And it was a friendship, almost instantly.

Leaving later on that night, John had waved at Sherlock shyly, who had given him a lazy two-fingered salute. They promised to find each other the next day on the Hogwarts Express, to always talk at Hogwarts. They both knew that they would keep their promises, because each boy was intrigued, their interest piqued.

The only thing that was running through John's mind as he walked home was something Harry had said about her latest girlfriend, Clara.

"Have you ever met someone so brilliant and fantastic and absolutely surreal that you know straightaway that you can trust them, and you can feel this connection with them, but you can't explain it really in words? You just feel it."

When John had first heard Clara say that, he had no idea what she was talking about. He was certain he could feel it now, as he thought back on the pale boy with the unruly dark hair and eyes that reminded him of the universe.

And as he walked, he smiled.

Hello, this is my first Potterlock fic. Now, I know some people don't like the Sorting of Sherlock into Ravenclaw and John into Hufflepuff, because there's arguments both ways. Originally, I knew I was going to put Sherlock into Ravenclaw so that he was different from his family, because that's what I was going for with Sherlock's character. I put John in Hufflepuff due to his loyalty and how he is always like that with Sherlock. I also wanted Sherlock and John to be in classes together. If Slytherins and Gryffindors are in Double Potions and the like together, it only makes sense for Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws to have the same.

Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. The characters belong to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The universe belongs to Queen Rowling.

Reviews make the romance grow quicker! Also, I'll bake you Ginger Snaps.