This thing needs to END. Seriously, I'm kind of freaking out at the moment. My mom was just telling me that it's a really good start to a story, not necessarily a short story. But you live and you learn, and all that. In any case, Alaylith seemed to be enjoying it, so if she likes, my mission is a success.

As before, thanks to my mom for beta'ing, and patiently reminding me that you don't spell 'supplies' as 'supplise' (I forget sometimes XD), and wading through my run-on sentences. Hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review!

The day after the Welcoming Banquet was free, giving everyone a chance to unpack and look at their timetable. After that, they fell head-first into the school year.

Watson looked at his timetable, then up at the corridor, then back down to the inadequate piece of paper in his hands, then again back up at the long, sweeping corridor lined with suits of armor. If magic was so darned advanced, why didn't they have a spell that could make the map of the castle change with the castle itself?

It was Wednesday and Watson had Second Year Hufflepuffs for the fourth period. After revising what it was he was going to teach, his beginning speech, etc, he had set off to look for the classroom. He had made the mistake, unfortunately, of leaving only fifteen minutes before the class began and did not take into account the amount of time it would take to reach the class. The timetable he had gave him a general idea of where things were, but the simple fact of the matter was that the castle changed too much to be able to be mapped. After three turns he wasn't entirely sure of, narrowly avoiding falling through a staircase that had three consecutive trick steps and a door that he was supposed to go through yet refused to open, he was now standing in front of what should have been his classroom, yet was a corridor. He was now panicking that he was going to reach the classroom late; not the kind of first impression you want to leave on your students. Just as he was considering zapping the door next to him with a particularly powerful spell (that may or may not get him sacked), he saw a familiar face.

"Holmes!" He cried, and all but flung himself at the new potions master.

Holmes, for his part, looked ecstatic. "Watson, this castle! Have you had a chance to look around? I got lost yesterday just going to the Great Hall and spent the consecutive five hours just wandering around. It is amazing! The magic! I've never seen anything like it! I'd read about it, of course, but I never thought-"

"Holmes, shut up for a second!" Watson tended to get snappy when he was panicked (though Holmes never seemed to mind. In fact, looking back, it seemed to amuse him.) "I'm lost, I can't find my way to my classroom and I have a class in" - he looked at his pocket watch - "five minutes. Can you get me there?" He looked at him as if he was going to save him from execution.

Holmes smiled in excitement. "Classroom 3C, correct? Let's go!"

"You know the way?" Watson asked, relief flooding him.

"No, but we can try," Holmes replied cheerily. "I have the rest of the day free, anyhow, and I'd like to commit this castle to memory. This year may not be as boring as I had initially thought; oh, what fun!"

And just like that, Holmes took off, Watson on his heels. To his surprise, they were not walking like orderly gentlemen, but racing like two schoolboys. He didn't care overmuch; he was too afraid of being late.

Holmes took him up not one, not two, but three staircases (of varying degrees of stability) and then down another three.

"Holmes! Where are we?!"

"I've no idea!"

"Then how are we going to get to the classroom?!"

"With luck!"

"The devil take your luck!"

Holmes threw back his head and laughed raucously as he rounded a corner. "But I jest, Watson, forgive me. There's a method to my madness; see, the way I see it, the thing you would most want to see when you are lost is the Fat Friar. Ghosts tend to fall into a certain habit, and since I saw him in a certain place just yesterday, it stands to reason he should be there again today. If we find him, he'll be able to point you in the right direction."

"Theoretically."

"Theoretically," he agreed.

Thankfully, after tickling a door into opening (helped by the portrait hanging next to them) they found the Fat Friar, who escorted them all the way to the class. After thanking the ghost profusely, Watson stumbled into the class, ten minutes late, trying to catch his breath.

Then he turned around, and faced countless pairs of eyes, all directed on him.

Watson could hide panic. When he had found out that his medical supplies were finished, and no less than twenty soldiers were jinxed and needed a potion immediately, he sorely wished he could punch something. He made his orderly go out and search for any likely ingredients instead. When he had heard the sound of a dragon's roar as he reattached an arm to a luckless soldier, he didn't bat an eyelash, and continued calmly directing the man on how to take care of that arm so that it wouldn't fall off

So when he felt mounting panic at being the center of attention (something that had never happened to him before) he pressed down on it with an iron (mental) fist and put on a calm manner like a coat.

"Blasted castle nearly killed me," he said, "Did anyone else nearly fall on that staircase with the three trick steps?" A dozen hands went up and Watson relaxed. He smiled a smile that reached his eyes and made all the students like him. "Then I'm not as old as I'd thought; excellent!

"My name is John H. Watson and I'm an ex-army doctor. I've taken a look at what you were taught last year and I will be continuing off of it - though my own method may be a bit different," he smiled, "as I believe in the practical approach. Is anyone familiar with pixies?"

And that was Watson's slightly unorthodox first lesson in Hogwarts; despite the initial mishap, it went well. The way Watson taught was to start with the definition of the 'beast of the week' and study them, move onto the discussion and independent study and then finish up the unit by putting to practice all that they had studied and try out their own theories. It was a strange way of teaching DADA, but the students loved it and the headmistress backed it, so Watson was satisfied.

From what he could hear, Holmes had started off on a good foot as well. Watson heard that during his first lesson with the Third Years, he walked into the classroom and without pausing for breath, told them, "Congratulations. Last year you were taught how to make the Wiggenweld Potion. Without actually knowing what it does. Genius, I'm sure. Now open up your book page-." He hadn't made a speech or even introduced himself. They didn't know what to call him until a particularly gumptious girl, by the name of Mundin, raised her hand in middle of his lecture and asked, "Excuse me sir, with all due respect, what is your name?" Afterward, Watson heard Holmes praise the girl highly.

Mole should have thanked her lucky stars that she had put Watson - of all people - to live with Holmes, because he didn't think anyone else would have put up with the man.

There were papers strewn all around his room and office (from all manner of subjects, but mainly had to do with his subject, Potion-making) including some bewitched papers that floated magically around, slapping Watson in the face occasionally. On one memorable occasion, he had fixed a howler to the mantelpiece with a jackknife and then took off, leaving Watson alone in the impending explosion. It was from some inspector from the Ministry of Magic with a French-sounding name, complaining about how Holmes had nearly compromised some investigation of his by including muggles - he hardly understood a word of what it said. When he first heard the sound that indicated that the howler was just about to explode (they do that when you don't open them yourself) instinct took over, and he upturned the nearest desk to him, without thought of the pieces of parchment that got thrown and the bottles of ink broken, and hid behind it. The heat that managed to reach him from behind the desk reminded him too much of dragons and Afghanistan for his shattered nerves. When it was over, he had gotten out, shaken, trying desperately to remind himself that he was in England, in Hogwarts, and that there were no dragons around for...well, he didn't really know, truth be told, but they were definitely not here on school grounds. When he saw Holmes skulking just down the hall, the only reason he didn't blast him with a spell was because he was working in a school and currently in a public place, and fighting other teachers would not end well with him. So he managed to lower his wand (which had been pointing at Holmes) and said, in no uncertain terms, that if Holmes ever put something potentially dangerous in their rooms, he should warn a man.

In addition to his peculiar and highly unsavory habits, he had what his students had come to call as "Black Moods". In such states, he would be the most lethargic and laziest fellow you ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. It was as if his very soul had been snuffed out; he moved little and spoke less, with his eyes heavy and dull, and his very skin a dull pallor. If he had let these moods affect his teaching, Watson would never have put up with it; and yet, whenever he had a class, he would drag his sorry state over to dungeons where his classes were situated and, while he did not actively teach the students, he allowed the students the freedom to experiment as they wished with their potions, while he lounged in whatever position suited his fancy at the desk. Despite all appearances, his eyes were ever-watchful and he was quick to punish any student who had decided they did not feel like doing as he said, or wanted to do mischief with their freedom, or were just about to make a very stupid combination. Plus, any and all discoveries were to be written down in the form of a thesis (he trained them early on in the year to do this) to be handed in next class - or whenever Holmes was in a good mood. In such cases, it seemed that it was much more work, not less, to give the students their freedom, yet it seemed to work for Holmes, who did not work like normal people.

Not everything was mess and laziness with Holmes, though, which is precisely why Watson could put up with all of the above. When not in a Black Mood, he was an energetic and pleasant fellow and many a time they sat up late into the night discussing all manner of things. He had such interesting and pleasantly unorthodox ideas about the world in general. As a professor, he was also a great one. When in the mood, no one surpassed him when it came to energy and knowledge of his own subject. He taught them the 12 uses of dragon's blood (and four lesser known uses), the secret to making doxycide ("It's all in the wrist movement while you stir"), and many, many other things. If for nothing else, he was widely popular among the students for openly insulting many of the books they needed to study and pointing out any and all mistakes.