The Stranger of Baker St. (Potterlock/Johnlock)

'1'

Just a quick a/n, but this fic is set in a Hogwarts gen of no sort. Just ocs but I promise it'll be hopefully interesting. I know that Sherlock would be in Ginny and Luna's year but i wanted the au to be focused more on Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Lestrade and other Sherlock characters. BTW THERE WILL BE A MAURADERS-TYPE PRANK GANG. ENJOY ;)

Chapter 1.
A loud knocking sound appeared on the door of 221b Baker Street. Sherlock was laid in bed and refused to answer the door so late at night, but suddenly he heard a crashing sound from the kitchen. Pots and pans had fallen off the worktops and a man with a large beard was standing near the table.

"Ah. Hello, Sherlock." The stranger smiled at him.

"What the..? John? Where are you? How did you get in here? The door was locked!" Sherlock gasped without taking a breath.

"I'm rather fond of this little flat. Mrs Hudson, your landlady seems very lovely too." The stranger said gently, which left Sherlock irritated at his unanswered questions.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing bashing around at 12:24 in the morning? And who's he?"

"It seems like we have a client who can walk through walls. He's travelled far, too. Scotland, I presume, going by the state of his coat."

"How did you get in here, though?" John asked. "We locked the door and the windows. There's possibly no way anyone could've-"

"Oh never mind that, John. I don't do midnight clients." Sherlock replied.

"Mr Holmes, I'm not a client." The stranger said.

"Who. Are. You?" He demanded.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore, Mr Holmes. And I'm here to prove the impossible to be possible." Dumbledore said, and with that, he was gone.

—

Sherlock woke up that morning, question everything that went on in the early hours of that day. He couldn't deduce anything about the man—Albus Dumbledore—except from things he can deduce from any other person.

"JOHN!" He shouted from his bedroom.

"Y-Yes?" John shouted back.

"I...I THINK WE MIGHT HAVE TO TAKE THE CASE OF THE...THAT MAN."

—

"Sherlock, there was no case. He isn't a client. He said it himself."

John and Sherlock sat in their chairs, drinking tea. They were talking about the stranger who came to visit them.

"Exactly. But explain how he got in here. The door? Locked. The window? Also locked. Now this is nothing like the case of the blind banker." Sherlock was annoyed at the name of John's blog entry for that one.

"Teleportation?" John said, half-jokingly.

"Oh that's..." Sherlock whispered. "Exactly what he did!"

"You serious?" John asked.

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed.

They sat in silence for a while. Sherlock was confused and he didn't like it. His mind palace was no help and anything he thought of, he quickly shoved it away.

"So what do we do now?" John said.

"We wait."

And that's what they did.

—

Albus Dumbledore returned that night. However, this time, Sherlock was ready. He'd waited up all evening to see the man but had only just spotted the silhouette behind the door at quarter past midnight. John had driven off to sleep, but somehow Sherlock had managed to stay awake, with the motivation of catching Dumbledore in he act. He'd locked the doors and the window and was watching. He had set up 7 CCTV cameras all around the flat in case he needed a source to revisit. Sherlock sat at his chair in the flat and he was ready.

"Mr Holmes?' The stranger called.

"I'm afraid I've locked the doors and windows accidentally, sir." Sherlock called back, lazily.

"I'm afraid I know that's not true." Dumbledore said, calmly. "You want to know how I did it, I presume? How I got into the locked flat?"

"Of course! Isn't that what anyone would want to know?' Sherlock shouted at the door so Albus Dumbledore could hear him.

And then, the strangest thing happened and Sherlock knew John was right.

"Its called Apparation. I knew you'd be intrigued. Would you like to see more?" He smiled.

"Y-Yes..." Sherlock stuttered as he looked into he face of the man, who had seemed to have teleported inside the flat.

"Well then. Better get moving as the train leaves Kings Cross station at 11.00 am sharp. We might have to wake up Mr Watson here. We're going places. Back to 1991" 

He snapped his fingers and then he was gone.

—

Sherlock woke up and quickly knew something odd was happening. This wasn't his bedroom. These weren't his clothes. His body seemed a lot smaller in proportion to the bed than normal. He ruffled his hands through his hair, which seemed a bit longer, but messier.

"John?" He shouted.

And then something strange happened.

"Sherlock Holmes! Get out of bed right this minute! You're going to miss the train if you don't get up." Sherlock's mother was standing over him, tall, with her hands on her hips. "And who's John?"

"Mother? What train? And what am I doing here? I was at Baker Street a moment ago!" For the first time in his life, Sherlock was confused.

"Baker Street? Where's that? London!? And what do you mean, what train!? The Hogwarts Express of course."

Sherlock got out of bed and looked in the mirror. He saw himself, but only 11 or so years old. He focused on his face and took a sigh. 11 years old. The age he started secondary school. Great! He now had to repeat the worst year of his life. Bullies! People calling him a freak! And worst of all, no cases! No missing students, no science practical accidents, no anything.

"If your face stays like that while the wind changes, brother mine, it is said to stay like that." Sherlock realised he was gaping and turned around to see his 18 year old brother, Mycroft, staring at him.

"What am I doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

"As far as I know, you are going to attend the finest wizarding school and the only one in the United Kingdom. Sherlock Holmes, get your Hogwarts letter and put your damn robes on."

Sherlock then realised that The British Government himself wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing a robe with a navy blue and silver tie. He was also wearing a 'Head Boy' badge. Of course. Mycroft was always such a perfect mummy's boy, where as Sherlock was more of the grown up.

Mycroft threw a letter at Sherlock, who was reluctant to catch it. He then read the letter:

Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Students should be required to report to the Chamber of Reception upon arrival, the dates for which should be duly advised.

Please insure that the utmost attention be made to the list of requirements attached herewith.

We very much look forward to receiving you as part of the new generation of Hogwarts' heritage.

Yours sincerely,
Professor McGonagall.

Sherlock was amazed by this letter.
"This makes no sense. There is no scientific evidence to prove that wizards exists therefore this must be some coldhearted prank to get me to go somewhere." He whispered to himself, however Mycroft could still hear him.

"Oh Sherlock. Why would anyone put this much effort into a prank? If you'd only deduce that the ink used to write the letter was from a quill, an old fashioned method. The robes I wear are finely made with great quality beyond man or machine and the marks round my hands that suggest I've been holding something in my hand for quite a long time." He put his hand down an inside pocket. "A wand, perhaps?"