HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

Unlike its dark exterior, the interior of Hogwarts Castle could truly be called magnificent and beautiful beyond compare. What was particularly interesting was that the ceiling overhead seemed transparent, allowing one to see the twinkling stars outside.

Noticing Sherlock’s intense scrutiny of the architectural impossibility above them, Hermione leaned closer whispered an explanation to him:

”It’s enchanted using ancient magic to perfectly mirror the sky outside, I read about it in Hogwarts: A History—”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

Indeed, it was hard to believe there was actually a ceiling over their head, and equally hard to believe the Great Hall wasn’t open-air.

Originally, when Sherlock had seen the size of Hogwarts Castle from outside, he thought his seven years of life here would be rather cramped. But now it seemed the space inside was obviously much larger than the castle appeared from the outside.

One could only say this wasn’t scientific at all.

When conventional explanation crumbled beneath the weight of impossibility, magic stepped in to fill the void with wonder.

The Great Hall buzzed with anticipation as Professor McGonagall returned from her brief absence. At her approach, the ghosts began leaving One could only say this wasn’t scientific at all.

The Nearly Headless Nick offered a courtly bow before his dramatic exit, while the Fat Friar beamed encouragingly at the nervous first-years before drifting up toward the enchanted ceiling.

Now the moment had arrived. Every soul in the Great Hall had settled into expectant silence. Four long House tables stretched the length of the hall, each filled by students wearing robes in their House colors.

Hundreds of faces turned toward the small cluster of first-years, creating a sea of curious, evaluating eyes that made even the bravest eleven-year-old shift nervously from foot to foot.

Under this intense collective scrutiny, Professor McGonagall gently placed a simple four-legged wooden stool directly in front of the first-years, then placed a hat on top of the stool

Sherlock noticed this pointed hat was patched, worn very old, and even from a distance, one could see it was filthy and shabby.

Sherlock noticed this pointed hat was patched, worn very old, and even from a distance, one could see it was filthy and shabby.

Then, in a scratchy tone that echoed strangely in the vast hall, it began to sing:

”Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,

But don’t judge on what you see.

I’ll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all...”

The hat’s singing voice wasn’t particularly good, and the melody was far inferior to his own violin skills—not even close.

Despite its questionable artistic merits, the song served as an efficient information delivery system. As the verses continued, Sherlock absorbed the crucial details about each of the four Houses, mentally organizing the characteristics like a detective cataloguing evidence:

Gryffindor—the house of the brave and bold, where courage burned bright as their scarlet and gold colors. Their emblem was the lion, that spoke of fearless leadership. The element of fire suited them perfectly, representing passion, action, and the willingness to charge diving into danger.

Hufflepuff—the house of the loyal and true, where hard work and fair play were valued above flashy heroics. The badger symbolized the element of earth.

Ravenclaw—the house of wit and wisdom, where intelligence and creativity flourished. The eagle soared highest of all birds, seeing furthest and thinking deepest. Air, their element, represented ideas, inspiration, and intellectual freedom.

Slytherin—the house of the cunning and ambitious, where silver and green reflected the depths of still waters hiding dangerous currents. The serpent, as the symbol of wisdom and power, spoke of those who struck with precision and prudence. Water, their element, could be gentle rain or devastating flood, always finding its way through any obstacle.

As the song concluded to polite applause, the true nature of the Sorting ceremony became clear to every first-year: they simply needed to don this ancient, sentient hat.

”I’m going to murder Fred when I get home!” Ron muttered through gritted teeth, his freckled face was flushed with a mixture of relief and indignation. ”He made it sound like we’d have to wrestle a full-grown mountain troll bare-handed, or recite the entire History of Magic textbook from memory!”

Both Harry and Hermione visibly relaxed, their shoulders dropping as weeks of accumulated anxiety finally began to dissipate.

Sherlock, naturally, felt no such nervousness. If anything, the on-going events had become exponentially more fascinating. A sentient artifact capable of reading minds and making complex psychological evaluations?

The Sorting ceremony had now officially begun. McGonagall, holding a roll of parchment, stepped forward and called out the first name:

”Hannah Abbott!”

A little girl with two golden braids stumbled out of the line under the gaze of all the teachers and students, and nervously put on the hat.

For several heartbeats, nothing happened. The Great Hall held its breath.

Then, with startling volume, the hat announced: ”HUFFLEPUFF!”

The rightmost table erupted in cheers and applause with students rising to welcome their newest member with genuine warmth.

The Fat Friar, Hufflepuff’s house ghost, clapped his translucent hands together with obvious delight, his round face beaming with pleasure as Hannah hurried toward her new house.

The pattern repeated with mechanical precision as Professor McGonagall continued down her list. Name after name was called, each student making the lonely walk to the stool, experiencing whatever mysterious communication occurred between mind and hat, then hearing their fate announced to the entire school before joining their new House table amid celebration.

Some sortings happened with lightning speed—the hat had barely settled before announcing its decision. Others took longer, creating suspenseful moments where the entire hall seemed to lean forward in anticipation.

Sherlock found himself timing each sorting with the precision of a scientist recording experimental data, noting patterns and variations with growing fascination.

Then came a name that made his analyzing mind focus with intensity:

”Hermione Granger!”

Their bushy-haired companion froze for a moment, her face was cycling rapidly through expressions of terror, determination, and excitement.

Without a word of farewell as she seemed clearly too overwhelmed, she practically sprinted to the stool and hurriedly jammed the hat onto her head.

Then began the longest sorting of the evening thus far.

This was the longest time spent among all those who had been sorted so far, giving the impression that even the hat seemed to be hesitating.

Seconds ticked by. Then minutes. The Great Hall grew restless, whispers beginning to circulate as students wondered what could be taking so long.

Hermione sat perfectly still on the stool, but Sherlock’s sharp eyes caught the subtle signs of intense concentration.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity but measured nearly four minutes by Sherlock’s internal clock, the hat announced: ”GRYFFINDOR!”

The Gryffindor table exploded in celebration, students cheered and stamped their feet as Hermione practically floated toward them.

Ron’s reaction was considerably less enthusiastic.

”Bloody brilliant,” he muttered under his breath, clearly displeased at the prospect of sharing a House with the girl who had already demonstrated superior knowledge of... well, everything. ”Just what we need—someone to make us all look stupid in class.”

But Sherlock barely registered Ron’s complaints. His mind was occupied with the fascinating implications of varied sorting times.

What caused the hat to be slow? Did certain students present unique challenges to it? Was Hermione’s extended sorting a sign of exceptional complexity in her character, or simply a difficult choice between equally suitable Houses?

The questions multiplied as he observed the continuing ceremony, each new data point adding to his growing understanding of the process.

Some students were obvious fits—their House affiliation seemed written in their very posture and expression. Others created moments of dramatic tension as the hat weighed various invisible factors.

Which raised the most intriguing question of all: when his own name was called, how long would it take, and which House would he be sorted into?

During the hat’s introductory song, Sherlock had already begun this analysis.

The result was... everything was possible for him.

Courage—he never lacked it. The fundamental reason he chose to come to Hogwarts was his desire to explore the unknown. When necessary, he could even put life and death aside; that feeling would only make him more excited.

Honesty—one of his interests was fighting crime. Though his methods couldn’t be called lawful good, they definitely didn’t belong to the evil camp, and the results were certainly just.

Wisdom—this went without saying. Though due to his family, he had once thought himself an idiot before meeting other children.

Cunning and ambition—he undoubtedly possessed both of these as well. And judging from the Sorting Hat’s little tune just now, that air of thinking highly of oneself and scorning rules really did match well with Slytherin.

So even Sherlock, who excelled at reasoning and analysis, found it difficult to determine which House he would be sorted into.

If only he could interview Hermione about the experience of mental contact with the Sorting Hat!

Her naturally communicative nature and obvious intelligence would make her the ideal source for understanding exactly what occurred during those mysterious minutes of deliberation.

Unfortunately, the ceremony’s structure made such consultation impossible. Once sorted, students immediately left for their House tables, where upperclassmen waited to begin the process of integration and welcome.

Just then, McGonagall saw that Hermione had taken her seat amid the welcome from Gryffindor upperclassmen, and her gaze returned to the parchment.

Her eyes paused slightly as she read the next new student’s name:

”Sherlock Holmes!”

Before Sherlock could take his first step toward the stool, Harry and Ron surrounded him with urgent whispers:

”Whatever happens, don’t let it put you in Slytherin!” It was Harry.

”You must go to Gryffindor with us!” Ron added.

Besides his two friends, naturally others were also paying attention to Sherlock.

The incident of him teaching Malfoy’s trio a lesson on the train had already spread, and students who knew about it inevitably noticed him when they heard this name.

Not to mention that Sherlock already had an appearance and demeanor striking enough to draw attention at first glance.

Furthermore, McGonagall had also mentioned this young wizard with keen observation and analytical abilities to Dumbledore.

However.

When Sherlock walked to the stool, he didn’t immediately put the hat on his head like the others.

He held the hat in his hands, rotating it while carefully observing it.

The Great Hall fell into a silence so complete that the crackling of candle flames became audible.

Every student, every professor, every ghost froze in fascination and bewilderment.

Professor McGonagall, who had presided over hundreds of these ceremonies with calm posture, found herself at a complete loss. Her mouth opened slightly in astonishment before she managed to regain her composure.

’You weren’t brought here to buy a hat—why are you being so picky?’

She couldn’t help but look toward Headmaster Dumbledore, who sat at the head table.