Sherlock Holmes and the Chamber of Speakeasy - Chapter 1/?
Title: Sherlock Holmes and the Chamber of Speakeasy
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes/Harry Potter crossover
Rating: G
Summary: In the autumn of the year 1865, John H. Watson begins his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and finds himself having to contend with three very bizarre friends, a prankster brother, an opened Chamber of Secrets, a carrot, and an odd boy named Sherlock Holmes.
Author's Note: After a lot of editing, a fair amount of worrying and a coaxing from one of my friends, I have decided to venture into the world of publishing fanfic on one's own LJ. This fanfic has previously gone up once before, on my sister's ffnet account, but I have decided it is time to take credit for my own slightly demented imaginings.
So, without further ado, I present:
Chapter 1
In the Autumn of the year 1865, I was due to begin my education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, so, after a few tearful embraces which my mother felt necessary to bestow, and an evil grin and off hand “See you at the Sorting”, from my brother Henry, who was entering his fifth year at the same school, I was bundled onto the train with a trunk neatly labeled ‘John H. Watson’ and an awkward looking owl in a cage tucked under one arm.
The train bustled along as I fought my way through the yelling, running, seething mass of humanity that the train contained. Just as I thought hopelessly that I should never get anywhere, and would most likely be trampled if I stayed in the hall any longer, there was a tap on my shoulder, and turning I came face to face with Bart Stamford, who had been a friend of mine since our infancy. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of people heartened me greatly, and together we pushed and pulled and battered until we managed to get to an empty compartment, where we deposited our bags and flopped down with the air of two boys who have accomplished some major task.
“Whatever have you been doing to yourself, John?” Bart piped up after about half a minute’s silence. “It’s only been a month since I last saw you and you are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.”
I grinned. “Mother and Father took Harry and I to the seaside for 2 weeks, as a treat before I started school.”
Barty whistled. “Lor, you are lucky. I wish MY parents took me to the seaside. All I got was a new owl, look…” he gestured upwards toward the tawny owl asleep with its head under its wing.
“It’s very nice” I said dutifully, and Bart beamed.
Our conversation doubtless would have continued in this vein had the door of our compartment not burst open with a dramatic bang, causing us both to jump and the owls to express their displeasure by hooting and flapping their wings.
Framed in the door was a small, skinny boy, about half a head shorter than I, and already dressed in his wizarding robes. Coupling this with the fact he had a rather aquiline nose, high, prominent cheekbones, very black hair and sharp, penetrating grey eyes, the overall impression I got was of a small, underfed bird of prey.
“Have you seen the state of the corridor?” he cried in a high, thin voice, flopping down onto the seat beside Bart. “Really, it’s like feeding time in the monkey house at London Zoo. Indeed, I believe it is worse, though at the time I thought surely such a thing would be impossible. I must say, you wizards have very little sense of dignity. Perhaps that’s why Father disowned me. Oh well, I’m sure Mummy will still write….”
During this amazing speech, my companion and I had been staring open mouthed and at a loss for words, but here Bart piped up “Oh, you’re Muggleborn, then?”
The boy looked up. “If by ‘muggleborn’, you mean my parents are not magical, then yes, I am,” he said evenly. For a moment we all sat in silence, and then the boy said curiously “What else can you be?”
“Well,” Bart said, puffing out his chest, “You can be half-blood, like me. A half-blood is someone with one muggle and one magic parent, or with one muggle born and one pureblood parent. And a pureblood is like him”, he pointed at me, “someone whose family is all magic. And,” he continued with an air of curiosity “why do you look peaked?”
The boy regarded Barty with a disdainful look before replying “I ate eggs. And I always get nervous when I eat eggs, Mr.….”
“Stamford. Bartemius Stamford -”
“Your first name is Bartemius?” the boy interrupted, with a look that looked oddly like hope.
“My mother’s a Crouch, Bartemius is a family name. Most people call me Bart or Barty.” My companion replied, seemingly oblivious to the look the boy was directing at him.
“Ah. Well, Stamford, Watson, farewell, though I’m sure I shall see you again over this year.” With that, he stood up to go, but turned back when I cried “How do you know my name? I never told you it!”
“It’s written on your trunk.” Holmes sighed, pointing. I turned to look at the offending trunk, and as I did so the boy swept out.
Stamford and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows and were about to resume speaking when the boy poked his birdlike head back round the door and said “Oh, I’m Holmes.” and then banged the compartment door for the third time in less than 5 minutes.
A stunned silence filled the room after this extraordinary interruption. Both Bart and I gazed at the door, and then simultaneously burst out laughing.
“What an odd little chap!” cried Bart. “He’ll have to work on that ego of his, or the Slytherins and the older Ravenclaws will be on him in no time.”
I wasted no time in agreeing with my friend’s sentiments, and we then embarked on a heated discussion of the current Quidditch league. In fact, so heated was the discussion that we did not realise that the door had opened again until a voice broke in on our conversation, inquiring tentatively “Excuse me, may we sit here?”
“Of course you can!”. I said, confused by the diversity of manners that seemed to permeate the train. Where I came from, everyone was polite, from my brother Henry to the lowliest house elf, or risk my father’s wrath.
“Unless you have typhoid.” Barty has the rather interesting ability to bring out the awkwardness in any situation.
“I had mumps when I was six,” replied the taller of the two boys tentatively.
Oh God, I thought, Barty’s got a kindred spirit.
“Is there something wrong with that?” snapped the small, sallow, rat faced boy that formed the other half of the duo, stepping protectively in front of his taller companion.
“Only if the contagion persists! Which I’m sure it doesn’t!” cried Bart, trying to defuse the situation he had created.
I decided to be merciful and intervene before the tableau degenerated into mindless preadolescent violence.
“My name’s John Watson, and this is my trunk…uh….friend, Bart”
The sallow boy eyed us suspiciously. I have not to this day been able to fathom why, as it was he who invited himself into our compartment in the first place, but Holmes tells me he believes it has something to do with their treatment at the hands of Morfin Gaunt, earlier in the journey.
“I’m Lestrade.”
“But Gabri-” the other boy started to protest, but Lestrade silenced him with a glare.
“Sh. Lestrade.” He held out his hand to us, and then added, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and this is Stanley Hopkins”
They sat down, and we four talked comfortably as the train traveled further north.