A/N: Hello! Inspired by a text post written by sherlocklexa on tumblr, this fic is next-generation potter!lock work. A big thanks to Sherlocklexa for her prompt and capitalized help along the way.

Just to make things clear: most characters are the same age for the sake of fiction. That means John and Sherlock are the same grade level although John is canonically older than Sherlock.

My personal tumblr is beesandjam. Any questions, corrections, or concerns can be sent there along with my pm on here. This work has not been looked over by someone yet so all buffers and whatnot are mine. I tend to update near the end of the month. Thank you for taking the time to read TIOSS. Please enjoy your stay.

Three words would continue to change John Watson's life over the course of his years at Hogwarts. Spinning and tossing, his fate would twirl out of control all because of one person and variations of words grouped in threes spoken from his lips. Nonetheless being different each time, three was the number. Three was lucky. Three was his.

•••

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," declared the young boy somewhat quietly as John slid into the seat opposing him, surprised that no other first year had followed his lead into this nearly-empty compartment on a nearly-full train.

John had introduced himself a moment earlier- he'd even stuck out his hand just as he'd seen his father do many times at the office –but the darker haired boy had waved off the greeting, his stare slowly drifting out the window adjacent to him while John moved his hand from its awkward spot in the air to the back of his neck.

Sherlock's legs strained out next to John now, their length not fully detailing the height of the eleven-year-old and how he would tower over the older blond. His hair was a dark, chocolaty brown and it curled at unplanned and chaotic perplexities of his face. His eyes beamed life through an intricate color of the sea (although they seemed to alter slightly each time John glanced back) and his skin was the color of such snow on the first of the year.

John, with his sandy hair and sandy skin, noticed that something perplexing made up Sherlock, but he couldn't quite pick it out. John nonetheless made a point of smiling at him and examined Sherlock pleasantly with an attempted casual chat.

"What house do you think you'll get into?"

A few seconds passed as Sherlock continued to gaze out the window contently at the bounteous mountains before he looked at John. Hadar, John's newly purchased Eurasian Eagle owl, screeched a complaint from his cage as if to say: "Speak up or I'll gag the remnants of my lunch onto your lap." But the owl (even if he couldn't) didn't need to talk because Sherlock soon did. "Seeing as I'm a heir of the founder- Slytherin. You'll clearly be Gryffindor. Now shut up; I'm thinking."

John looked confused and his eyebrows masked into a line. What would be so demanding that the younger boy needed silence for? Without heeding Sherlock's request, John asked another question with eyes positively narrowed onto the brunet's frame. "What are you thinking about?"

"How to steal a cat," Sherlock muttered, sneering with his upper lip curled marginally.

John was shocked. He was expecting a more normal answer comparable to curiosities about the dormitories or difficulties of classes, but no. Sherlock Holmes was plotting out a devious way to steal a bloody cat. John, a displeasing yet intrigued look on his twelve-year-old face, responded in disbelief. "Pardon?"

"A bloody one at that. Just like the owner," was all the younger boy retorted.

The blond's head shook in thorough skepticism and mistrust (although John did have to admit that if this kid's scheme was skillfully realistic enough he would certainly ask to join him) whilst he restated the previous statement as a question. "You're going to steal a cat?"

Sherlock shook his head at the idiot in front of him while keeping his observation secure on the scenery outside the Express. "That is what I've just said," he countered, "but yes, a cat. I need it for experiments and potions, but seeing as I'll be sorted into the same house as he is currently in it's riskier to keep the blasted thing hidden."

"You said you know about the house I'll get into. You couldn't possibly be correct," John acknowledged. The earlier conversation was poking curious holes into his mind ceaselessly.

"Simple. You have nerve… talking to me even after I demanded that you'd shut up. Chivalry is from your clothes. Your parents are lacking money but you've made well with what you have even if your older brother passed down the jumper you're currently wearing. You take pride in yourself- I can tell from the attempted handshake and determined eye contact, however you are not boastful of it. Easy, Gryffindor."

"How did you know about my sibling?" John muttered before processing the remaining information in his head.

The brunet smiled for the first time since having met the other boy, a side of his lips being tugged into a slim smirk. "I'm certain you haven't been drinking recently," Sherlock jeered nonchalantly all while his fingers formed a steeple under his chin.

John shot him a look of displeasure and confusion all muddled into one. "Only my mother was at the station, so you couldn't have seen him. How do you know about the alcohol?" he inquired, his head tilting to the side slightly.

"Of course he wasn't there, that'd be too obvious," the opposing boy commented, waving his hand in the air to amount the stupidity in John's recent statement, "your jumper reeks horridly of liquor…if you were only looking for it. He must have given it to you recently- you probably picked your favorite of the hand-me-downs to wear today for a good impression. Clearly Gryffindor." Sherlock sighed, eyes trained on John's as he read the doubt on his face. "I'll write your first paper if I'm wrong of any facts for reassurance of your disbelief."

The blond's eyes widened as his mind fumbled loosely over all the information Sherlock had just presented about him. All of it was perfect- except for one thing- but how? Did he know some sort of knowledge spell? Did John have a sign on his forehead that gave off information? Instead of contemplating it any longer, he simply asked.

"I notice things other people neglect; I don't know them. All apparent to say the least," Sherlock snapped. He was reasonably satisfied with himself, his hands moved from their familiar position under his chin to cross over his chest while he awaited a snotty comment from the blond.

But it didn't come. All John said was "Brilliant".

And that surprised Sherlock, although nothing ever surprised him. In Sherlock's head John was no longer labeled ordinary or boring or tedious or dull or stupid or insufferable; John was different. Not one being, especially not from Sherlock's family (for they shared the same ability on different degrees, but nowhere close to his level), had ever complimented him on this talent. Normally people respond with ill-mannered comments such as Sherlock's favorite: "Piss off". John was the first to reply to the deductions positively and it put him above all others. Automatically. Sherlock didn't even have to think about the matter.

He squinted at the blond. "Really?" the brunet confirmed, a second grin spreading across his eleven-year-old face. The brief instance allowed John to glimpse Sherlock for his authentic age but soon his persona was back up and all John saw was a devious smirk and absorbing eyes.

"Definitely," beamed back the blond, "but I hope you do enjoy writing papers because I have an older sister, not a brother."

•••

The students seated at the long and narrow tables watched Sherlock with wide eyes when he'd taken his seat on the stool as McGonagall declared his name. Mycroft Holmes talked little about his younger brother, for he disliked him and the large, loud mouth he possessed. Some of the students didn't actually know Slytherin prefect Mycroft had siblings until the young boy with shambolic hair and wild eyes was settled on the seat looking rather pissed off at the world. But, because McGonagall had announced him to be a Holmes, they couldn't disagree.

Sherlock took a long time on the worn stool, his mind bickering with this second voice inside his head. The hat searched his brain intently, finding extensive knowledge and cunning ambition. He could be easily put into two houses: Slytherin and Ravenclaw. With his balance between to intelligence and cleverness, Sherlock Holmes quickly became a Hatstall- and a bloody long one at that.

The two bickered within his mind relentlessly (But the Ravenclaws know absolutely nothing! – And yet, you could do well there.) and soon the Hat had become fed up with whose head he was sitting on and depended on blood. "Slytherin!" he yelled, finally finishing with the flamboyant first year. The students cloaked in green stood and cheered, except for one, as he had known what was to come.

John Watson had been sorted much easily. He fluently fit into both Hufflepuff and Gryffindor; and so, because his bravery and courage outweighed his patience, John Watson became a very incredibly loyal Gryffindor by declaration of a hat. This time red-cloaked students cheered and an intelligent Slytherin smirked knowingly from across the Great Hall.

Over the course of his first meal the new Gryffindor made curious glances at Sherlock nosily. The Slytherin had noticed these occurrences quite inevitably, but dismissed them as his piercing blue-grey eyes trained onto his plate while he pushed his roasted chicken about the dish. John had met a few people at his own seating whom he seemed quite fond of; a decent-sized kid with a light humor by the name of Greg, a plump teen whose glasses didn't quite fit his face deemed as Mike, and a slightly quiet boy who shared a first name with previous headmaster Albus Dumbledore. John didn't find these classmates as tenuously captivating as Sherlock, but for being his housemates they would do.

He smiled at his new friends, holding up his cup of pumpkin juice as some sort of welcome to his coming years at Hogwarts. And when he caught Sherlock's eye seconds later, he nodded in sentiment even if the other boy only gave him a questioning look.

•••

Although it had only been two days, John Watson forgot about his Slytherin friend.

On Monday morning Sherlock had not been seated opposing him at the green table. John had also not seen him on the way to any classes or in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Flying, or Astronomy on Tuesday.

The complete bliss of his first two days at Hogwarts had swept him off his feet and carried him away. He became lost within corridors, sat in complete astonishment during a few classes, and even made witty jokes with his new Gryffindor friends. Because he had been a Muggle for his entire life up to this, Hogwarts was a bundle of utter possibilities that John could not wait to take ahold of…

…but then he bumped into a certain Slytherin on his way to Charms.

"Sorry," mumbled the blond automatically before turning on his heel. Dark hair, green robes, a nasty scowl plastered onto a pale face- how could he have forgotten? "Sherlock!" he called out to the retreating figure, "wait up!"

The brunet's eyes narrowed as he continued sauntering towards History of Magic. By seeing the means of the situation present, Sherlock was convinced his Gryffindor would continue to follow him until he spoke, so irritably he muttered, "What is it?"

John raked a hand through his hair, fixing his eyes on Sherlock's in the process. After a deep breath and a calculation that he had about two minutes to make it across the castle to Charms, he proceeded to ask the taller boy about the cat and if he had already stolen it or not. Even if the John was virtually infatuated with his new school and the grounds, Sherlock continued to intrigue him with a deeper necessity. Stealing a cat was quite captivating nonetheless- obliviously John had to assist Sherlock on this. Clearly. Who would pass up the chance?

John was rather eager so Sherlock answered his unspoken question in the act of ignoring the original one. "Meet me at the entrance of Great Hall once you've had dinner."

And without awaiting a response from John, Sherlock headed off to History of Magic, his cloak fluttering majestically behind him as he fled.

•••

Charms had ended fairly well. John had managed to do decently on their first quiz and even scribbled notes onto enchanted parchment, sending them over to Greg (but only when the professor wasn't looking, of course). To say the least, John was pleased with himself.

His new friends, on the opposing matter, did not do as well with their quizzes as did the blond. Greg had a decent but not so satisfying 'Acceptable', Mike was paired with a distasteful 'Poor', and Albus- whom the professor had suspected to do well in class- was left a failing 'Troll'.

With displeased looks on their faces (except for John's), the four boys trudged to the library to study up a bit before lunch, all a bit too irked to enjoy the facilities to their extent.

•••

During his dinner John scanned the Slytherin table for his friend multiple times over (it got to a point where Greg began questioning him about his actions), but his attempts proved futile- Sherlock wasn't there no matter how often he checked. Evidently, the Gryffindor was anxious to see his green-robed friend awaiting him in front of the large doors afterwards. With a pleasant grin, John rushed to Sherlock and they began their tedious journey to the dungeons.

"I assume, seeing that he'll have Prefect duties at this time," Sherlock began as they waited patiently for their staircase to stop moving, "my brother will be in no alarming distance of the common room for awhile. This allows us to easily slip in as long as no other Slytherin sees us flustering about his belongings. Simple."

John squinted. "Why do you want to do this anyways? And who is your brother?"

Although it had interested him before on the train ride to the school, it had never dawned on John why such a first year would want to steal an animal- let alone from his said brother. At this certain point John became alarmed. What if he wanted to use the deadly spells on it? Would he harm it in anyway possible? What if he-

"My brother is Mycroft Holmes, Slytherin prefect and also a pompous prick. He's an absurd being and his cat will have good use if I were to experiment on her- she is rather...outsized. Just like him, but in a different matter entirely."

The two had then reached a blank, cobblestone wall in which ceased their conversation. Once Sherlock had quite loudly mumbled a specific name of a potion (John grasped that Sherlock was practically welcoming him to visit the common room another time), the boys stepped inside.

The Gryffindor followed his taller companion in slower and swift stride, his eyes glazing over the green-tinted room with awe. Realizing it was located under the Black Lake, the common room was relatively dark when forgetting to mention the scattered candles or few fireplaces intelligently located about the area. With it's grand but cold impression the Gryffindor could have easily been comfortable and frightened at the same time. A insufficient amount of people were scattered around the room and the few who actually looked up at them only tossed a sneer in the Gryffindor's direction before casually returning to their droning conversing without second thought.

Both Sherlock and John were walking unconcernedly towards the dorms when John spoke next. "Why don't they care that I'm in here? I'm a Gryffindor for Merlin's sake!"

The Slytherin noticed how quickly the former Muggle was catching onto warding slang. He must have been with his housemates often enough for him in to grow familiar to it in order to be saying it himself. "I see you've made some friends," the younger boy commented.

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew- probably have a knowledge spell or something."

While witnessing John roll his eyes, a slight smile pulled at the corner of Sherlock's lips as he snickered. "That would be utterly tedious and boring. Are you fond of them?"

John thought back to the past two days. He'd shared some memorable times with them already, but they were missing something. And soon, with a glance upward and a light grin, John knew. No matter how much he enjoyed his friends' company they'd never be Sherlock. "They're nice, yeah. A bit boring compared to you, but they know more about the wizarding world than I do."

While peering downwards with a set raised eyebrows Sherlock said with a breath, "Obviously- they've lived here their whole lives."

John lost his chance to reply when the arrived at Mycroft's room. Luckily for them, once they had promptly pushed open the large door, the dormitory was vacant. Sherlock made a comment about how simple it all was when he rushed to the opposing side of the space to a selected green bed. The Slytherin dropped down to the floor and called the cat by its name. His voice was soft and soothing- almost like a crescendo in a melody (John dabbled a bit with the clarinet back in Muggle school). "Anthea," the human boy practically purred, "come here."

John wasn't expecting what had crawled out from the limited space between the bed and floor. With long, tattered, and matted black fur and fangs when she hissed, Anthea wasn't the sweet cat John was hoping for.

Once she had let a loud gnarl loose from her throat, Anthea attached herself violently to Sherlock's face, pushing him backwards. He struggled some but was soon able to part with her long enough for her to run about the room. Other than her mess, the pair of first years made a tremendous clutter chasing her from under beds, inside sheets, and sometimes from the walls. This was trickier than John had expected.

The Gryffindor resulted in multiple slashes about his arms and the Slytherin a start of a black eye (he'd run into the foot of someone's bed), but they had successfully captured the creature inside Mycroft's blanket. Sherlock, by a flick of his wand, sent the room back to it's normal, tidy, state and headed down the stairs, bundle of fur and sheets in arms and John at his heels.

•••

"Where will you be keeping that?"

"Oh, come on John. Do keep up. I know you're not like the rest of them, so you should have a brain somewhere in that massive head of yours."

Sherlock was rushing through the halls, and bloody hell, it was near curfew. John had no intentions of breaking a rule or losing house points on his first week and the thought of it made him just a bit queasy.

He could already picture a Howler being sent to him from his mother if she were to find out. Embarrassing him as it would in front of his new friends, it would drown his reputation in seconds flat. All in his first week! His new housemates would also be disappointed with his new choice of-

"Clever, oh how clever," Sherlock rambled ahead of him as the cat created screeching noises of resistance.

"What is?"

"The Room of Requirement, also commonly referred to as the 'Come and Go' room. Only when a person has a real need of it shall it appear and seeing that we must have a place to hide a beast, obviously we are searching for it now. But our need isn't really need, now is it? We took the cat and even if I do require her for experiments and the likings, it's not a need- it's a want. We must have something more prominent and demanding for it to appear, hmm?"

John's head twirled. Rooms and beasts and curfew and embarrassment and Slytherins and it was only his third night? Bloody hell, magic could captivate you quickly.

As best as he possibly could with all of his Muggleness in the way, John nodded and racked his brain for ideas; however, it was a senseless act because Sherlock opened his arrogant mouth and began talking, breathing his words out indifferently. "It was said that Dumbledore once had to use the loo and found it filled with chamber pots."

And, without another proceeding thought, the young Slytherin shouted "Accio chalice!" into the musty castle air while concentrating as best he could, successfully conjuring a silver cup filled to the brim with pumpkin juice. "Drink up," he muttered, shoving the glass towards the blond's chest.

John now held the chalice in his hands, his quivering fingers doing the best they could to support the cup. His mother wouldn't be proud, but it was the best (and only, really) option the Gryffindor could think of at the moment; it was seemingly the quickest way to be allowed back to the dormitories by Sherlock. If he were to just do as this git said, he would be seen back upstairs and in bed in the very near future.

John drank the juice rather rapidly once he'd picked out his choice, thus prompting the brunet to use the refilling charm after each occasion of emptiness and forcing the younger student to drink the juice again and again and again. And, soon enough, just as the genius had planned, John needed to use the restroom.

The Gryffindor returned the chalice back to Sherlock as he paced uncomfortably down the chalky halls and then back once more. It was getting to a point where he couldn't hold it much longer; walking wouldn't help, his hands were shaking, and he continuously bit the inside of his lip out of stress. "Sherlock-," he began, but was cut of when a large, round door appeared ahead of him, just as he was about to turn away. John ran in thankfully, praising Merlin as he did so.

The area John had now entered wasn't a loo at first, but he somehow followed a trail that led him to one. As he relieved himself, Sherlock locked Anthea in a cage placed perfectly inside the first room, flopped down onto a large purple couch, and thought of the potions he would be creating in the near future as he waited.

This chamber was rather large and resembled seemingly to the dormitories. Two beds were bordering a wall dyed maroon and a fireplace (with two selected arm chairs) opposed them. Scattered with out-of-place windows, a wall slithered behind the pair of beds as it mapped out the landscape of Hogwarts. It was comforting, the room, with its warm smells of tea and kindle.

"There's a golden sink in there, Sherlock," mumbled John in amazement when he found his way back to this oddly enchanted common room. The Slytherin didn't respond- he was somehow already lost in his thought -so John took the liberty himself to sit down on one of the beds and stare at the ceiling.

With wide eyes John scoped out the room and noticed how easily he could become very at-home in such an environment. Also, if they stayed in here the remaining time of the night, he could miss curfew completely and pop up the next morning, only bringing suspicion to a few people. John made his choice without even realizing it.

"Anthea is such a horrid name and if we are to keep her, she will be called Gladstone. Mycroft never has any logic, does he?" babbled Sherlock from where he was stretched out on the couch, his eleven-year-old lankiness spilling and pooling over one of the arms of the sofa where his feet dangled off.

"True," muttered the Gryffindor in agreement as he sunk into the luxury of the purple mattress he was occupying. Gladstone meowed displeasingly from her cage at this.

And soon but drearily, both slightly injured first years drifted off to sleep in their selected spots of the Room of Requirement without notice- one gaining sleep for the first time since his arrival and the other with a goofy grin smothered about his face as he dreamt.

Update (as of Feb. 23, 2014): I thought it be best to post some faqs I generally get on tumblr here sooooo (probs delete this later)

Will the rating ever go up? Possibly. Nothing graphic. I don't do sex so if that's what your aiming for I suggest you find another work.

Will Johnlock be in this? Yes. For the most part they will remain friends, but I do have plans for them to become a thing in later grade levels. Mary will be in this.

What about Mystrade and Seb/Moriarty? Subtle hints at most. I think.

How many grades will you write out? All seven. I might throw in some summer interludes if I'm in a good mood.