sortinghat_logs | The name is Sherlock Holmes.

The library made for an excellent place of observation. And with so many interesting things going on, the need for the scientific study of his samples was in many ways increased. There was no telling how the 'normal' person related to these odd occurances and so with his notebook in hand Sherlock had made a point to stand back and take his notes.

Finding Greg in the library was a stroke of luck as he already had quite a few notes on the young man. He wasn't exactly secretive about his activities.

He never really was.

Sherlock scribbled away as he took in the minute details he observed. Upon Greg's cursing, he stilled his quill. "Wrong or tedious?"

Greg jumped in his seat, nearly knocking his inkwell over. "Bloody-!?"

He turned around and scowled when he saw who it was; he'd seen the older boy around the library before, always with a quill and a notebook scribbling stuff down. A regular library go-er, Greg hadn't had much to do with him. In fact, Greg did his best to ignore him as much as possible. It probably had to do with the fact that whenever they were in the same room Greg would nearly always discover that the Ravenclaw would be somewhere around him, watching him. Be it behind the bookshelf, at another table, or even just at the same damn section, he'd always be hovering somewhere nearby, and always with that annoying quill, scritching at the parchment.

It was, to say the least, creepy.

Still, he hadn't exactly done anything wrong. There wasn't any reason for Greg to not be polite, swallow a sharp retort back and reply courteously. "Tedious. 30 centimetres isn't exactly a walk in the park is it?"

With that, he turns his back on the other student and resumes his work, trying to ignore the stare that was boring into him.

"Thirty inches is only a bother if they express the exact size lettering and page orientation. Turn it horizontal and write top to bottom in as succinct a sentence as you care to. If unspecified otherwise, there's no reason why they should not accept it."

If there was one thing Sherlock was good at, it was thinking outside the box. Not that it was all that impressive to most teachers when the flaws of reasoning within their own grading rubric was flaunted.

He really shouldn't, he knows that in his experience arguing with Ravenclaws has never ended well for him, but he can't help but turn over his shoulder to give the Ravenclaw a look.

"I don't know if you went to school before you came to Hogwarts but generally? That's how teachers want you to write your assignments. It's just common sense."

"What's common about making sense?" Sherlock maded a face and put his notebook down for a second. "If intelligence was common, why then would intelligence the leading trend among only one-fourth of the houses at Hogwarts? Right there you're putting the sample of clever students alone at 25% occupancy in this school--not accounting for individual variables. The worst thing you can do is thinking the common way is the right way. Progress is often times the product of rethinking what is common with new insight and information. For instance, a common thought and common enough mistake could be concluding that because you are a student at Hogwarts, you intend to make a living in the magic world. It's reasonable and statistics would make it an almost certainty. However, your lack of passion despite dutiful adherence--as indicated in your forceful quill strokes and the bold typeface--says something else entirely. Should one go with common sense or with the truth?"

Well, he's regretting this know. It's like dealing with Stark or Kishitani: two blokes who couldn't get it in their heads that there's just a certain way that things are supposed to be done and instead go off on how it doesn't make sense.

"For God's sake it's just the length of an assignment. The professors just want to see whether you know your stuff on it, that's why they want you to write 30 centimetres. Intelligence isn't the same as common sense anyway. And-"

And that's when the last bit of that small vent caught up to him. He closes his mouth, opens it again, before he shuts it and just stares.

"What did you just say?"

Sherlock just stands perfect still through the rant, no hint of expression on his face to belay anything above disinterest in Greg's disagreement. Greg's pause and request for clarification makes him smirk slightly, though.

"You're muggle born and while you enjoy the feeling of unity that comes both with belonging to the wizarding community as well as a school and house identity within it, your loyalty lies within the realm you were born to. The one you will most likely return to--possibly in a peace keeping type career where there is a set order to be upheld."

He couldn't hide his disbelief or his shock. For a few seconds all he could do was gap with slight shock, before he shook his head.

"How the hell did you know of all that?"

Because the only person who would know that much about him is Arthur, and he'd trust Arthur with his secrets. The Slytherin would never betray them to anyone.

Sherlock sighs. It's all so simple, really.

"As I said, your disinterest in your coursework is evident in your penmanship. Bold strokes can sometimes be evidence of self-importance but that isn't within your character so forced diligence it is then. I've observed you on enough occasions to know that your work generally looks as such for classes but that same bold stroke is not as evident in your journals. I doubt most people would notice, though. But there is enough of a difference for it to be assumed that it's not just one or two assignments of classes you don't enjoy but the whole subject of magic is not something you have decided will be very important in your future. You're much more interested in people and activities than scholastic endeavors which is fine enough for your age and physical build but most muggles are much more interested in the nuances of this new world that's been open to them than you are. The thrill has been lost. You're nearly disillusioned, really. Your sights are set beyond this to the point where Hogwarts is more the distraction than your own thoughts. That much is obvious in your general posture."

He glances down to his homework, then to his hand before he looks back towards the other boy, expression both incredulous and surprised. Still, there is no way that he could be read just like that by a person who had barely spoken ten words to him prior to this conversation.

"That's just, that's just rubbish! Maybe I'm just stressed when I'm doing my homework, ever thought of that? And homework is home, it doesn't matter what school you're going to, you're going to dislike it all the same."

Sherlock chuckles lightly.

"You're not stressed. Look at you. You've a very practiced calm that comes from having to internalize a great deal. You're a steady hand even at the worst of times. You know exactly how not to let on you're anxious or stressed. Second nature--you don't even have to think about it. It's down to muscle memory from the flex of your jaw to the straight back and squared shoulders. Your father must be a very regimented individual. Taught you to do what you have to do, I'm sure. Like homework that doesn't really mean anything to you. Stiff, steady quill strokes because you do what you have to do pass--as is expected--without any internalization. Stress? Ha!"

He felt a slight chill down his spine, but he refused to admit defeat.

"You could've just read that from my journal entries, or heard stuff around the castle. Gossip and rumours."

Because there was no way that anyone would've known that his current ambition is to join the local force around his area. Or rather, it was supposed to be until last year.

Sherlock scowls just slightly.

"So you can believe in magic, even as a muggle, but you can't believe I could know such things without gossip?"

"Unless mind-reading is something in the wizarding world, then no, I don't because half of what you said is just pure hearsay. So if you excuse me, I have homework to do, and you can keep your fancy theories to yourself."

And with that, he resolves to return to his homework, opting to pointedly the other boy until he leaves.

"Mind reading is but I don't need to read your mind to know what you're thinking, Lestrade. I do well enough simply reading you as it is." He makes a few notes about the encounter in his notebook. "Perhaps muggles with no rational understanding of magic will find skill more believable."

He has to fight the urge to roll his eyes and keeps his eyes trained on his homework, but his mind was far off from the underwater properties of Gillyweed. All that had been said is, as much as he is loath to admit it, absolutely true, with the exception of his goals in the future but that's a secret he keeps guarded carefully. He looks at his strokes on the paper; they were really hard and stiff. He has never really noticed himself.

With a heavy sigh, he places his quill down and turns around to face the observer properly. "You said it's skill. What sort of skill is it?"

Sherlock shrugged, hiding well how exciting it was to be asked.

"It's more a science than anything, I suppose. It's all based on deductions which are derived on observations of minute details. The things people overlook as not important are often the most important. The turn of a collar, the state of ones robes, a shoe's scuff, the musculature of the jaw--they are all effects of rational causes which can be worked out through an understanding not of what is likely but of what is logical."

Deduction. Greg croses his arms and considers it. While he has heard of people trying to read handwriting, he's always given it as much attention and belief as he awarded Divination, which is to say near zero. It always just seemed so vague and silly that he's always just written it off as fanciful fortune telling. But now that he's given it some thought and reflected on his own posture and quirks, it did make sense how the other boy could come to those conclusions just through observations.

Still he needs more proof, so he meets the other's gaze seriously.

"Alright then. Let's say that this is true. What else can you tell about me? Just by looking at me now."

Sherlock looks him over, focusing in on his hands.

"You worked as a waiter over the summer. I'm sure you hardly felt the heat off the plates at the time thanks to the callouses from sports but the scarring from burns along the first and second knuckle of your right hand suggests repetitive burns as you held out a plate. I imagine there is a corresponding spot on the pad of your thumb though less pronounced due to the thickened skin along that same area. However, the scars on the knuckles themselves were probably caused from curling your fingers under handles against an abrasive surface repetitively--loading dock work probably attesting to at least two jobs which would explain the state of your dress beneath your robes. You're an only child so certainly second hand rather than hand-me-down. You're supporting yourself."

Greg nods this time, unconciously flexing the fingers on his right hand.

"You've got that much right. I've worked at the docks and at cafes. I play football and a little cricket, though boxing is what I do most of the time. And I am footing most of my own bills."

A small smirk though creeps cross his face as he settles back slightly on his chair.

"I'm not an only child though. I've got twin sisters."

Sherlock sighs. "There's always something." He makes more notes. Damn. Never perfect.

The smirk fades into a more geniune smile though as he gets off his chair and walks towards the Ravenclaw.

"But I'll give you credit for getting it near right. That's a very useful skill you have right there."

And he sticks a hand out to shake.

"You know my name, don't suppose I could know yours?"

Sherlock eyes the hand for a second, not exactly sure what he's expected to do with it.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes."

Greg is.. smiling. Sherlock is suspicious.

Greg raises an eyebrow at his hesitance.

"It's a handshake, not a karate death grip."

Sherlock tucks his notebook into a pocket and takes his hand.

After one firm handshake, Greg folds his arms again and addresses Sherlock somewhat sternly.

"Now that introductions are out of the way...is there anything I can do for you, Holmes? I may not be able to tell that a lad's been snogging his girlfriend in the Astronomy Tower from the state of his robes, but I'm not blind. I know you've been watching me for awhile, so if there's something you'd like to say or ask...?

"Actually, there is something." He took his hand back and reopened his notebook. "My muggle studies are flawed in their scholastic extent. It doesn't delve very well into areas of my interest. I want to better understand what it is that makes someone a muggle. Not to prove any sort of superiority but to understand them. The finer points of struggling with mundane tasks and living in only half the known world can't really be deduced readily by someone who has always seen the bigger picture. My interactions would be improved, however, with a better, basic understanding of their thinking."

"If Purple's your teacher, than I'm not surprised that you find Muggle Studies flawed. Good bloke, but half the things he says are either outright wrong or a horrible misunderstanding. But let me get this straight here. You want to know what makes someone a Muggle, apart from a lack of magic? Because we're really not that different from wizards and witches. I mean, yeah there's no magic, but there's science and technology and stuff that makes our life easier."

"But you don't understand your technology--you just turn it on. We, on the other hand, are taught our magic and understand its mechanics on an intimate level. Our relationships with our wands as an extension of ourselves has no true equal for Muggles. It's a foreign culture and no one understands it better than someone from it."

Greg shrugged.

"Isn't it the same for magic though. I mean, the teachers tell us to wave it one way, say a few words, but we don't really know why it's those words that make up the spell, or why it's swish and flick and not flick and swish. And we do get how our technology works for some of our machines. I don't think dad could've survived if he hadn't learned how to fix the coffee maker."

"Either way; that is what you can do for me. You can introduce me to the finer points of muggle existence."

"Well, sure, if that's what you want. Though I don't know exactly how or what you want me to explain to you. I mean, you said we don't know how our machines work, but that's a pretty broad statement. It all depends on the type of machine you're talking about."

Sherlock sighs. "I don't care about the machines. I do but not in this instance. Tell me what muggles do. For fun. At home, at school, everything that is part of living that isn't considered relevant in studies."

"Alright then, if that's what you want."

He puts his hands in his pockets and frowns, trying to come up with something that would satisfy Sherlock's question.

"Well, it's simple really. There's a lot of things that we do that's got wizard versions of them. Like, chess instead of wizard's chess. It's the same thing, 'cept the pieces aren't alive or anything like it. And umm...instead of Quidditch, football and rugby's what British boys like to play. And cricket too."

Sherlock took some quick notes. “And you have documentation of these events? Photos or video of some sort? Books, magazines or other reading materials would be good. What kinds of injuries can be expected when playing these sports? Is there an age group that is more likely to participate in either? Is there a social class or particular distinction between anyone invested in either? What does the gear look like? Does it leave marks on the body like tight long-socks? Co-ed or gender specific? If one breaks a bone playing rugby, which are they most likely to break? Which side of the body? Would it be dependent on their handedness?”

He will go on and on if allowed and the speed at which he talks makes as much apparent. Sherlock notices everything and therefore desires very detailed knowledge.

Greg's eyebrows just keep raising at the stream of questions that are coming out. It's when Sherlock starts asking medical questions that Greg feels that he needs to stop him.

"OK, I think that's enough questions for now. I'll try my best to answer'em, but you'll have to make do with what I've got."

And he does try to answer each question. General ones like age, rules, injuries, gender, social demographics, stuff that every follower of the greatest game on earth would know off. Some of the medical stuff is met with pause and a shrug of the shoulders, but Greg's had his fair amount of injuries on the field to know which areas get hit the most. Still, anything too medical is outside his realm of experience.

Sherlock takes notes and does his best to commit the details to memory. His method of loci training is far from complete but it's certainly coming along.

"This really won't do for a comprehensive lesson on the sport. Some other time perhaps? It will give you time to procure visual aids."

The name is Sherlock Holmes.

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