I missed you guys and I missed Harry Potter.

Specialis Revelio

Causes an object to show its hidden secrets or magical properties.

Professor McGonagall had it in for her, Molly decided. There was absolutely no way interdisciplinary studies had become big enough for them to try and offer a joint paper. There was no way.

Molly ignored the niggling sense of reason at the back of her head that told her that magic had many, many blurring lines in these times. That Herbology and Transfiguration weren't necessarily aspects that could be studied in isolation any more. That of course, at least the sixth years needed a class which crossed the distinct categories the subjects were put in – especially with the relentless modernization that the wizarding world had been going through since the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

But there really wasn't a good reason for Professor McGonagall to saddle her with… him. She could have easily worked with the Charms professor, John Watson. Anyone – absolutely anyone but him.

"Did she say you have to work with him?" asked Mary as she brought some Pepperup potion for Molly's cold.

"Yes," sniffled Molly. "Why him?"

"He can't be that bad," said Mary with a frown. "John says he's hard to manage and very temperamental, but not an awful person."

Molly turned away. She didn't know what to say to Mary about the small… amount of – affection – she held for Professor Holmes. It was silly foolishness, compounded by the number of students who had raging hormones that surrounded her.

When Professor Holmes had come to the school, she hadn't been able to think of anyone less suited for the job. He was brash, angry – and quite rude towards his students. The one thing that had redeemed him was his extraordinary sharpness. She had read some of his academic papers and had been silently impressed. But she wasn't fourteen. She didn't simply – become infatuated with people who had an admirable grasp on the principles of animal transfiguration.

She found herself with growing admiration over the man. What had really cemented the issue for her was when Harry Potter had walked into the school and directly into his office.

Apparently – apparently – he assisted the Auror office on cases that baffled them. This ridiculous agreement was possibly why she saw him so often with bruises and cuts in Mary's office. She didn't care, particularly, about that – of course not.

Nobody knew that her first crush had been the private detective in Dorothy Sayer's books: Peter Wimsey.

Not that it was relevant.

"Cheer up," said Mary. "You only have to work with him for three months."

"That," said Molly. "Is true."

"Fragmentary sentences," smiled Mary. "Should I be worried? You haven't been this… off kilter since Jim Moriarty."

Molly blushed. "Well! That is neither here nor there. He was a bit… nuts – wasn't he? Holmes is mad, but I wouldn't categorise him as a psychopath. And even if I – well, if I did – it's completely irrelevant, since I wouldn't go waltzing off with someone like that, would I?"

"You have a thing for psychopaths, Molly Hooper," said Mary clarified.

Molly glared. "The only thing I feel for Sherlock Holmes is intense loathing. He has no respect for his students! None."

He also has sharp – high – cheekbones. Not to mention those blue eyes.

"Yet," said Mary. "No one has ever complained about him."

"That's because he's crafty," dismissed Molly.

Mary hummed cheerfully. "Tell me when you both decide on what you're teaching," said Mary.

He arrived largely unannounced.

It wasn't at all a considerate thing to do, Molly thought savagely. In fact, it was quite a wrong thing to do. And that too when she was humming to herself while cutting Mandrakes.

"Miss Hooper?" he said.

"Who is it?" she said, uncaring. Music was playing in her office while she dissected, so really, the world could go to hell.

"Fascinating though the Bent-Winged Snitches' rendition of Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love is," continued the voice curtly, "I'm afraid I would have your attention."

Molly blinked. She turned around, keeping her scalpel down.

"Um – Mr. Holmes," she said stiffly.

"Good to meet you," he said in a tone that suggested the exact opposite.

"I – erm, well, I sent you an owl," said Molly with some asperity.

"I know. I decided to skip a step in the process and meet you directly."

"Well," she hesitated, "The thing is – I'm busy," said Molly.

"I'm sure you have the time to set up a meeting."

She paused, biting her lip. "How about tomorrow?" she asked. "Eight?"

"Sounds about right," said Professor Holmes. "I'll see you then." He turned on his heel and walked off.

Of all the insolent, mind-numbingly entitled, complete piss offs!

Now she had to chase him to ask where they wanted to meet.

Molly tried not to think about the extra effort she had put into her attire before giving it all up as a bad job and wearing her favourite, most comfortable, cherry red jumper. They met at Professor Holmes' office because the horrible man convinced her that the warmth of the castle was preferable to the damp, cold world of the greenhouses that Molly seemed to never leave.

Molly wanted to say that there was nothing cold or damp about her office, but just as she had thought up a suitingly scathing reply, a pile of compost had fallen on her shoes.

The horrible man had smiled to himself.

So here she was, knocking on his office door. It was warm, she conceded grudgingly. The Transfiguration floor was not the dungeons, where Irene's office was. Irene's office really was cold.

"Good evening, Miss Hooper," he said, opening the door.

"Evening," she said simply.

"I'd offer you tea, but I know you already had some doughnuts on the way over," he said.

"How did you know?" she asked, regretting the decision to ask almost immediately.

"The crumbs," he said by way of explanation.

"Well, I would offer something," she said. Molly wasn't an awful person. She baked, and she liked making friends. Who knows? Maybe Mr. Holmes was just irritating because of his good looks.

He's not good looking, she told herself sternly.

"What?" he asked.

"Um," she said. "I was baking today. So I brought some biscuits."

He tilted his head at her, his interest piqued.

Molly felt distinctly uncomfortable.

"The irrelevant gesture of friendship is wholly unnecessary, Miss Hooper," he said. "I don't like doing this any more than you do. I do appreciate the biscuits, however. I like ginger cookies."

She blinked. "You don't like doing this?" she asked.

"I prefer not to be saddled with someone else. Although, it is a relief you are not Professor Anderson."

Anderson was the substitute teacher in Molly's stead. She agreed with Professor Holmes, largely – Anderson was quite idiotic. But she had to defend him from this – this – this – bothersome man.

"An admirable sentiment," said Molly dryly. "I'm sure – erm – I'm sure I reciprocate, Holmes. So, what do you have in mind? Herbology and Transfiguration don't exactly match."

"I don't have any opinions," he shrugged. "I want to get this done with."

Molly decided that there was no point beating around the bush. She cared about the children, and that was what she was here for. She squared her shoulders, brushing her hair behind, and decided to get through her speech without stumbling too much.

"Professor Holmes," she said plainly. "I don't care for much else except for the fact that the children have to be considered. I don't think we can throw together something without so much as a by-your-leave and give it to them."

"Can't we?" said Holmes, his eyebrows raised. "I was under the impression that the children have to be considered the least, what with most of them being absolute dunderheads."

Molly went red. "No!" she said. "Come on, Holmes. We have to think of the children."

"Isn't this the paper that will be taught to the year James Potter is in?" asked Holmes, amused.

"What's wrong with Potter?" asked Molly, her voice unreasonably high pitched.

"Nothing. His uncle owns the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. He hasn't tried anything on you because he has a crush on you, Hooper."

Molly bit her lip. She wrung her hands, and went quite, quite tomato red.

"I did not know that," she said.

He grinned. "Deduction, Hooper. Deduction."

"Well, you aren't much better!" said Molly, snapping. "You know that Alicia Reynolds has been holding a candle for you since her fifth year?'

"Of course I have," said Holmes, rolling his eyes. "Jonathan Boot has been leaving you flowers every Valentine's."

Molly glared. "Why can't people leave flowers for someone like – I dunno – Mary?"

"The general consensus is that Watson has her," said Holmes. "There was a pool going among a few of the upper classmen about it. I think James Potter has raked in quite a lot."

"But – but – but, how?" asked Molly, despite herself. "And does that – well, does it – um – really happen? People being interested in one couple enough to have a pool running?"

"Apparently, Potter made the accurate assessment that neither of them would approach, despite knowing quite well what the other thought. And no, it rarely happens that people care that much. However, when it's two teachers then people like Fred Weasley and James Potter do manage to persuade quite a few people to pitch in a couple of galleons."

"That boy," said Molly. "Incorrigible."

"Well, Hooper. Now that we are done with the school gossip, would you like to tell me what you had in mind? I can tell you had something in mind."

Molly glared at him again, trying to increase the intensity. "I was thinking we'd do plants that can manage to disguise themselves and transfigure into looking like something else."

"That makes sense," said Holmes. "I had nothing more than plant transfigurations, which was a largely uncreative idea."

Well, at least he knew when his ideas weren't perfect.

"We could juxtapose the two!" said Molly enthusiastically. "It would make for an amazing research subject."

Holmes' lips quirked, and Molly stared at her feet again. "That sounds good," he said. His voice didn't have a trace of humour. "Research would be needed."

"Obviously."

"The library? Eight in the morning on Saturday, I would say."

"Oh – um. Yes," said Molly, nodding vigorously.

Molly hummed to herself as she went to the library. "Some say, that dreams are a distant road," she sang softly. "To where the heart would like to go."

"What are you singing?" he asked, curious. "A Muggle band?"

"Yes," said Molly, taken aback. "Where did you even come from?"

"You play," he said, with a cursory glance all over her. It made her feel warm.

"Yes…" she said. "The piano."

He tilted his head at her again. "Shall we, Miss Hooper?" he asked.

"Um – well, it should be - 'Professor' or 'Hooper', to you," said Molly, annoyed.

Again, his lips quirked upwards very, very little.

They settled themselves comfortably in the library, and Molly began to search. She dragged out multiple books.

"How about Gillyweed?" she said. "That's a good one."

"Yes," said Holmes, without looking up from his own book. "Moonleaf?" he asked.

"Yes, that works," said Molly. Her face lit up. "This is going to be so much fun!"

"You enjoy your research work that much?" he asked sardonically.

"Of course I do," said Molly quickly. "And don't pretend you don't. I've read your papers."

"You have?"

"Well, yes," said Molly. "Can't really help it. You pop up in every field. I've seen you referenced in at least two other major papers."

"Ah," he said. "I have had a similar experience with yours, though, so I suppose we can call it quits."

"Have you?" asked Molly, surprised.

"Could we stop congratulating each other and get to the task in hand?" asked Holmes. "I don't pretend to enjoy this any more than you do."

And there it was. Instantly annoyed, Molly imagined stabbing him in the back.

Minerva McGonagall had seen a lot in her life, she did concede to that. Having lived through two wars, one heartbreak, a fallen career, an extremely successful second one, the death of Albus Dumbledore, the death of Voldemort, and the phenomenon that was Potter was quite enough for one lifetime, one would surmise.

Yet, people insisted on irritating her.

"What is it, Miss Hooper?" she asked her voice iron.

"I can't work with this man, Professor," said the girl, throwing a black look at the man in question.

"And why," asked Minerva, placing her fingers together in thought, "is that?"

"He's moody, irresponsible, doesn't turn up for appointments, and refuses to work with me unless I know complete obscure information! On top of that, he insulted my profession!"

"There is nothing inherently stupid about what you do," said Holmes. "It's you that is quite stupid."

Hooper glared at him.

"You both know what you are supposed to do?" asked Minerva in a dangerously low voice. Harry Potter, the hero of the new Wizarding world used to be afraid of her, and so help her God, Sherlock Holmes will learn to be afraid of her.

Neither of them said a word.

"I trust you are old enough to work together in a reasonable manner. If Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter can find it in them to work together, then I daresay you can do the same."

"God, Holmes, what is wrong with you!" exploded Molly.

"Absolutely nothing, Hooper! Not if you count having half a brain!"

"You want to study Herbology within the domain of Transfiguration and your answer is to chemically bomb my Greenhouse?"

"I was attempting to study the effects of acids on plans that cause transfigurations within humans!" he defended.

Molly pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Look, Holmes, I don't like doing this any more than you do, but we have to set some ground rules. Think of the children!"

He laughed humourlessly. "I don't care about the children."

She wanted to be upset, but she really couldn't. He looked distressingly good. "I do. So I am willing to compromise – I will set aside one room for you for experimentation, supply you with samples and equipment, if you will stop insulting my intelligence – I know you don't actually think I am like Anderson, and if you did, I might have to strangle myself with a venomous tentacula. You will be more agreeable, and we will work with a little more ease. Do you understand?"

He looked genuinely shocked by the generous terms she had set forth.

"And, we will occasionally work in the Greenhouses," she added.

He rolled his eyes.

"Fine."

He was an irritatingly temperamental man.

Sometimes, he would pester her beyond belief over some new discovery. At other times, he couldn't care less what Molly found, and what Molly didn't. It drove her up a wall – she would be talking about something like the Chinese Chomping Cabbage (which was irrelevant to their research, she knew, but come on), and he'd nod along until she realised he wasn't listening to a word.

"Um – Holmes, did you – did you even hear a word of what I said?" she asked.

"Not even the pauses," said Holmes, ignoring her.

"Holmes!" she said, aggravated.

"Molly, people choose to fill their heads with absolute nonsense, throughout their lives," he said, once again, not even looking at her. "I choose not to maintain a record of things that I will never need. Divination, for instance. Claptrap has no place in my mind-palace. Even Astronomy is not needed."

Molly blinked. There were multiple things to register: one – he had called her Molly. Two, he didn't know a thing about stars? Three – the Chinese Chomping Cabbage was relevant to her, dammit!

"The Chinese Chomping Cabbage is relevant to me, dammit!" she said angrily.

He was looking at her curiously, as if she had puzzled him with something.

"All knowledge is necessary," she said primly.

"How many times have you used Divination?" he asked her succinctly.

"Oh, do be quiet," she said. She paused. "You don't bother keeping Astronomy?"

He returned to his book. "No, I don't."

"But – that's – " Molly struggled with her words.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said.

Molly loved the stars – she enjoyed Muggle Astronomy and Wizarding Astronomy. Her head spun when she considered the possibilities of the stars, the very conceptual existence of their being. Their light, dying – constantly, constantly, yet reaching her, everyday. Forging a connection between herself and every single human that had looked at them, while they died.

But she couldn't explain this to Holmes.

She bit her lip, and concentrated on the third important aspect of his speech.

"Mind palace?" she asked.

"A memory method," he said. "You create a geographical location to store information and memories in."

"Theoretically, you forget nothing," finished Molly.

He blinked. "Yes," he said. If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

"You should think about the students, though, Holmes," said Molly.

He snorted.

"You are infuriating," said Molly with a glare.

He grinned wolfishly.

"Bubotuber Pus," Molly said, handing him a page.

It was very late into the night, and Sherlock was scribbling at top speed. She herself had got bundles and bundles of notes together. He snatched the paper out of her hand. She felt annoyed, but intensely aroused by his disheveled appearance.

They were in his office, working continuously and without breaks.

"Perhaps we should take a break," she said cautiously.

"No," he said.

"Well, I'd like one," said Molly stubbornly.

He glared at her. "You are the one who is infuriating."

"You haven't eaten, Holmes," she said evenly.

"It obstructs the process," he said darkly.

"What, metabolism?" asked Molly. "You'll find it's also necessary for survival. Then again, I work mainly with dead organisms, so would I really know?"

She leaned back on her chair. "Look, Holmes, I don't like you or anything, but after putting in so much work, it would be a shame to have you die of your head exploding due to over work." He opened his mouth to contradict this postulation of his death, and Molly said, "Don't."

They didn't say anything for a minute.

"Let's go through what we know, if you would like."

He paused. He nodded perfunctorily.

She smiled. "So, we want to have one joint class a week to go over what we actually teach them, don't we?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Well – what – would you, um - what are we going to begin with?"

"We should introduce the paper. The students are idiotic enough without us giving them more encouragement in that direction."

Molly laughed a small, small amount. She straightened her face to give a summary of the paper:

"We're studying the transformative properties in plants and supplementing it with a study of how much Transfiguration can replicate the same magic, and how it does so."

"In essence."

Molly grinned brightly. "The sixth years are going to love it! I know that Bobby Sheffield has been begging me to do something along these lines."

"You really care," he said. "You really truly care about your students."

Molly looked affronted. "I do."

He returned to his papers.

Their paper together started in earnest – they gave a lecture together to brief the students. Molly was surprised at how good he was at engaging the students – the girls watching him because he was mesmerizing, and the boys listened to every word because being an assistant to solving crimes was something beyond cool. The admiration in the room radiated, and Molly honestly felt a little annoyed at the lack of attention given to her.

On the other hand, he also spoke extremely well.

Holmes had a diction and command that Molly couldn't replicate – she generally gave lectures with a lot less finesse. So, she would speak about her aspect with a lot less enthusiasm. She stuttered a lot as well – collecting her thought process over and over again. She also depended a lot more on student participation – which was where Holmes lacked. She wasn't insecure enough to care about how much better his lecturing was, but she did admit hers paled in comparison.

"Any questions?" they completed together.

A few hands came up. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Molly elbowed him. This caused a small ripple in the class. Molly raised her eyebrows at the students.

James Potter grinned at her encouragingly.

"That will do," she said firmly. "Yes, Rowan?"

"Professor, will the comparative study also include seasonal transformations? Some plants tend to change during full moons, or during certain times…"

"Of course," said Molly easily. "You can make – well, as – complicated - that is, it – it as complicated and difficult as you want it to be. Or you can do what I suspect Fred Weasley is planning to do – erm, – slap it together last minute."

Titters.

"You don't know it yet, Professor," said Fred Weasley, grinning very much like his cousin brother.

"I know it's hard to believe," said Molly. "But we do pick up – certain – patterns while teaching a single year for more than six."

More giggles.

"And while all that is fascinating," drawled Holmes. "Class dismissed."

The students left quickly, wrapping up their bags and books together.

"You have a good rapport with the students," said Holmes, putting his papers together.

"They listen to you more," said Molly, her fingers curling and uncurling as she snapped the clasp of her bag. "Your lecturing style is extremely enchanting."

He continued to put his things together.

"Cheer up, Holmes," said Molly, rolling her eyes. "I'll be – um, out of your – out of your hair in no time. Maybe next time, you'll get Watson to work with you. Or you would prefer someone from the obituary section of the newspaper?" as soon as she said that, Molly regretted it. But Holmes' reactions surprised her.

He snorted. "I think I prefer you over him. He writes perfect elegies, filled with action and adventure and nonsense in his lectures."

"Everyone likes his teaching," said Molly. "Maybe they enjoy the action."

"Diverting," he said. "From the real matter."

Molly grabbed her own bag. "He's your friend, isn't he?"

"John? Yes."

"You should tell him."

"I've tried," and he looked genuinely frustrated. "John disregards whatever I say because I'm not normal."

Molly laughed. "I would agree."

The Three Broomsticks was packed, as usual. The booking had been an initiative on the part of Minerva McGonagall to encourage staff interaction. McGonagall's position as the head of Hogwarts had had very interesting intermingling programs which Molly wholeheartedly disapproved of: it meant interaction.

She was watching Mary flirt shamelessly with John. She rolled her eyes when Mary laughed at one of his jokes.

"How much do you bet on them getting together by the end of the school year?" said a voice close to her ear.

Molly grinned. "You're incorrigible, you know that, Irene?" she asked.

"Oh, hush," said Irene. Her perfect lips were perfectly red. She looked breathtaking in black, and Molly smiled at her. "You and I both know that they're idiots who have been stopping themselves because of their own egos."

"Their egos," said Molly deliberately, "might continue – to be – well – preventive."

Irene smiled at her easily.

"You don't have as good a grasp on human nature, Molly Hooper," she said.

"And you do?" Molly asked derisively.

"Of course I do," said Irene. "Look at old sour face there –" she pointed at Mycroft Holmes. He was part of the Board of Directors, and had dropped in during the morning to speak to Professor McGonagall.

"Do you ever wonder whether that Auror Lestrade and he have a thing going?" she asked.

Molly batted Irene away.

"I bet twenty galleons on it," said Irene.

"Mycroft Holmes seems very determinedly asexual," said Molly cautiously.

"You seem very determinedly heterosexual," countered Irene with a wink. Molly blushed red. "And you and I both know that's not true."

"Go away Irene," she rolled her eyes.

"What about him?" she asked, nodding towards the younger Holmes. "He's one of my old flames."

"You and Holmes were a thing?" asked Molly, surprised.

"Oh, he tried," said Irene. "Or rather, I did."

Molly felt a surge of heat as she acknowledged this. Sherlock Holmes would be into someone like Irene Adler – beautiful, vivacious and absolutely genius Irene.

"Holmes and I are working on a paper together," said Molly primly.

"Oh, yes," said Irene. "I have Watson for that. How does it go?"

"Irritatingly."

"Sounds like Sherlock."

"He hates me," said Molly, looking at her feet. "He doesn't think much of me, in any case."

Irene tilted her head to one side. "You might revise that notion," said Irene.

"Why?" asked Molly.

"He's coming towards you."

And within a flash, she was gone. Molly had a minute to be surprised, or to compose herself. Instead of doing either, she chose to have a small anxiety attack and spilled her drink.

"Charming," he said.

"What do you want, Holmes?" asked Molly, wiping her hands on a napkin.

"An escape from boredom."

"With your mind?" scoffed Molly. "Perhaps by the next century we will find an adequate distraction for your mind, Holmes."

He smiled. Molly was always surprised by how often he did that when she said things like that. It made her self conscious about her humour. Most of whatever she found funny was dreadfully morbid.

"They seem so… happy," he said, as if disgusted.

"It's not a foreign concept, you know," said Molly, sipping her firewhisky.

He looked at her.

"I – well, see – look at it this way," said Molly. "Some people get excited about drinking instead of – I dunno – murders, or a new theory in transfiguration."

He looked away. "I don't suppose you do?" he asked.

"Not really my thing," confessed Molly. "I – don't drink that much, and I feel very uncomfortable at parties."

He nodded, in a way that suggested he already knew. Knowing him, he probably had deduced it.

"Oh, look," said Holmes idly. "Watson has finally decided to act on his baser impulses."

Molly looked over to John and Mary as they kissed.

"Oh," said Molly happily. "That's nice."

Holmes shrugged. "Certainly better than some of the others. Sarah, in particular was one of the decent ones. Janet was terrible."

"Need you be so cynical?"

"Patterns of romance always give away the –"

"Outcome, I know," said Molly. "But people – people can always surprise you."

"Human life comes with a pattern, a trajectory. If studied hard enough, the future would be predictable."

"Have you ever been able to?" asked Molly.

He raised his eyes at her.

"I'm not making fun of you," said Molly, ruffled. "I'm sure on some level, you are right."

"Really? And it doesn't disconcert you?"

"It doesn't matter whether we live predictably or whether it was a mathematical calculation or whether we were predestined on a path or coincidence set us going," said Molly, looking distantly away.

Holmes didn't say anything.

"Are you deducing?" she asked.

"I'm always deducing," he sighed.

"What do we have tonight?" she asked.

"Rutherford is trying his best to conceal his relationship with Thurse."

"Heavens. Doesn't Thurse have a wife?"

"And Rutherford has a girlfriend," added Holmes.

"Irene ought to have something to say about it," said Molly absently. "She's been eyeing Thurse's wife since the beginning."

"I always thought Adler's taste was a lot more -" he searched for a word. "Tall."

Molly blushed. "You flatter yourself – um, don't you?"

He smiled. "It was a useless distraction," he told her crisply.

"That's heartening," she said, taking a delicate sip of her drink. "Perhaps – um, well, you – wouldn't care for it much anyway."

"Sentiment – is a useless chemical defect found on the losing side."

Molly swilled her drink.

"Who are you fighting?" she asked.

She swallowed the rest of her drink. Tilted her head to regard him, and smiled. "Goodnight, Holmes."

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