When Dumbledore cheerfully suggested singing the school song together, the other teachers' expressions became ever so slightly awkward—except for the headmaster himself.
Sherlock instinctively sensed something odd about the situation.
He soon found out why.
With a casual flick of Dumbledore's wand, a golden ribbon unfurled above the long tables, displaying lines of lyrics in midair.
It was the Hogwarts school song.
Then came the twist—
"Everyone choose your own favorite tune. Ready? Sing!"
All the new students: What???
Is that even allowed?
Turns out—it really was.
The entire hall burst into a chaotic medley as students and staff alike sang in completely different melodies, with no harmony or coordination to speak of. The result was a spectacular mess that could only be described as musically tragic.
Most baffling of all were the Weasley twins, who opted for the Funeral March as their tune of choice.
Dumbledore didn't just tolerate it—he enthusiastically conducted their last few lines with his wand, and when they finished, his applause was the loudest of all.
Sherlock: (￣.￣)
Looks like I really ought to get my hands on a violin.
After the Sorting Ceremony, the speeches, the feast, and that... unique rendition of the school anthem, the Hogwarts Feast of the Term finally came to a close. The students began heading to their dormitories.
The Great Hall erupted into a flurry of motion.
At this point, the prefects took over, leading students—especially the confused first-years—back to their respective house dorms.
The Gryffindors, affectionately known as the little lions, were shepherded through the bustling crowd by Percy Weasley, climbing the grand marble staircase.
Compared to the other first-years who were dead on their feet, Sherlock was still full of energy.
His grey eyes sparkled as he eagerly took in every detail around him.
There was simply too much to see. Even Sherlock Holmes found himself overwhelmed by the novelty of it all.
The portraits hanging along the corridor were alive, pointing at them and gossiping with one another.
Doors were hidden behind sliding panels and heavy drapes, making them practically invisible without guidance. If Percy hadn't been leading the way, there'd be no chance of finding them.
The mischievous poltergeist Peeves tried to mess with them using his walking stick, but was quickly scared off when Percy mentioned the Bloody Baron.
At last, they reached the end of the corridor, where a painting of a plump lady in a pink dress asked them:
"Password?"
"Dragon dung," Percy replied promptly.
The Fat Lady swung aside, revealing a circular hole in the wall.
One by one, everyone climbed through the passage.
They had arrived at the Gryffindor common room.
Percy directed the boys and girls to their respective dormitories, then informed the first-years that their class schedules would be handed out during breakfast, and reminded them not to be late to the Great Hall.
Based on what he'd seen so far, Sherlock thought Percy was doing an excellent job as a prefect.
Compared to Sherlock, who was still sharp and observant, Harry and Ron were practically sleepwalking. They only managed to find their dorm thanks to Sherlock leading the way.
—Fortunately, the three of them had been placed in the same room.
The other two roommates were Neville Longbottom—the round-faced boy who'd lost and recovered his toad on the train—and a boy named Dean Thomas.
Their luggage had already been delivered.
Sherlock decided to take a quick look around the common room.
Gryffindor clearly had a decent sense of interior design.
The round room was cozy and warm-toned, with deep red walls and inviting, squashy armchairs that practically begged you to sink into them and never get up.
Sherlock had planned to start exploring more of the castle immediately, but unfortunately, the room was a bit chilly.
Though he was in decent shape, he'd only recently recovered from illness. The lingering cold still gnawed at his body, making prolonged exposure unwise.
Still, he did gather one useful bit of information: the Gryffindor Tower was located on the east side of the castle, and the common room was on the eighth floor.
By the time Sherlock returned to the dormitory, all four of his roommates were already fast asleep.
Five four-poster beds stood in the room, four of them drawn closed with deep crimson velvet curtains.
His own bed, as it happened, was neatly situated between Harry and Ron.
"Not bad at all," Sherlock remarked as he changed into his pajamas and got into bed.
After such a full day, he hadn't felt particularly tired during his little walkabout, but the moment his head hit the pillow, exhaustion crashed over him like a wave.
Sleep took him swiftly.
The night passed without incident.
The next morning, Sherlock opened his eyes to find all four of his roommates still snoring softly.
He hadn't planned on waking them, but the noise of him getting up stirred Harry from sleep almost instantly.
Growing up in the Dursley household had conditioned Harry to jolt awake at the slightest sound.
When he saw his soon-to-be sworn big brother already up and dressed, Harry scrambled upright and asked, "Sherlock, where are you going?"
When Sherlock told him he was heading out for morning exercise, Harry hesitated—then quickly decided to go along.
"A wise decision," Sherlock said, pleased. "A healthy body and a clear mind are the foundation for solving any case."
Harry nodded fervently. Since meeting Sherlock, he'd come to appreciate this more and more.
He tried waking Ron too.
But Ron, lacking both Sherlock's self-discipline and Harry's growing admiration, turned them down flat and went right back to snoring.
So it was that Sherlock and Harry set out from the dormitory, embarking on their first exploration of Hogwarts.
During their morning training, Sherlock unexpectedly discovered that the so-called "The Boy Who Lived" had some hidden potential.
Due to his harsh upbringing—cramped in a cupboard under the stairs, often underfed and mistreated—Harry looked undersized compared to other boys his age.
His pale, thin face, bony knees, perpetually messy black hair, and striking green eyes were his defining features.
The taped-up round glasses he used to wear had already been magically repaired by Sherlock.
He also now had a proper-fitting set of robes—without which, his figure looked even skinnier under Dudley's hand-me-downs.
But despite his frailty, Harry was quick and light on his feet, with good reflexes—a natural in terms of agility.
With proper training, he could really go far.
And so, Sherlock extended an offer:
"You've got talent. Want to learn boxing with me?"
Harry: '(°ー°〃)
In the end, Harry declined.
Sure, boxing did sound kind of cool. But a wizard practicing hand-to-hand combat? That seemed just a bit too out of place.
Sherlock was slightly disappointed.
He had hoped to train a few capable assistants during his time at Hogwarts.
He and Harry had been getting along well, and Sherlock had already begun making plans to mentor him.
He hadn't expected a refusal.
After their morning session, the two made their way to the Great Hall.
Ron the breakfast champion, round-faced Neville, and Dean were already at the table waiting.
—Also, it's Sherlock Holmes' birthday today. ╰(￣▽￣)╭
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