John had reason to agree with the new professor before the day had fairly begun. He'd woken his dormmates around midnight, yelling at the giants laying waste to the courtyard in his dreams. They'd all been awkwardly nonchalant about it, merely crawling back into their own beds once it was clear he was not having some sort of fit. He, on the other hand, had been too ashamed to sleep after that, so lay utterly still for the remaining hours of night, letting the rhythmic snores in the room mark the passage of time.

He leaned on his cane more than usual when, as the first rays of dawn hit the tower room, he dressed and headed to the Great Hall. Professors Vector, Sinistra, and McGonagall, and two Hufflepuffs were the only ones there as he sank onto the Gryffindor bench and let his head rest on his folded arms. The quiet refuge lasted only a few moments.

"Watson." It was McGonagall's voice side him.

He jolted into an upright position, spine cracking with the sudden motion. "Yes, Professor?"

She gave him an appraising look and held up a letter. "Your parents wrote me about you. Said they're concerned about you returning to school so soon."

"I've had the same time as everyone else," John said, trying to keep his voice as pleasant as the expression he'd pasted carefully onto his face. "My parents worry too much."

"In this case, it sounds as if they have good reason, Watson. That curse could easily have killed you. Your parents say the healers at St. Mungo's only released you at your own insistence."

"It grazed me." There was no keeping the snap out of his voice. John took a breath and continued, voice as clipped as McGonagall's. "The healers did all they could. No reason to stay there when I could take my potions at home."

He regretted mentioning that when McGonagall shifted the pages of his mother's rose stationery and held out a prescription. "Yes, your mother said you left this. You're to take it to Madam Pomfrey today to have it filled." Her eyes flickered to the cane resting beside him. "As you have time, of course."

John took the paper, fighting mightily the urge to rip it into shreds. Professor McGonagall must have seen.

"I'll be sure to let Poppy know to expect you."

"Thank you, Professor," John said heavily, choosing to stuff the paper into his pocket instead. He derived some small satisfaction from the way it crumpled against his fingers.

McGonagall started to walk away, but turned back, seeming to weigh her words before she spoke. "Thank you, Watson."

He blinked up at her, brow furrowed. She folded the letter, replaced it in her robes, and put her hands behind her back.

"You won't get the accolades that some of your classmates will, Watson, but some of us saw. You did your house proud last year."

Minerva McGonagall was not one for long speeches. This, John knew, was tantamount to getting an Order of Merlin. He was saved the embarrassment of coming up with a reply by a knot of students coming in the door. With relief, he saw that Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger were among them. There would be no spare glances for him with these two living legends in the room.

McGonagall glanced back at him as she swept down the table. "I'll give this to Professor Smith, since he's your head of house now, Watson."

He wanted to shout after her that it wasn't necessary, that the stranger had no need to read his parents' message, but the Great Hall was quickly filling up and he had no desire to make another scene. He turned his attention instead to the food in front of him, slathering a piece of toast with strawberry jam. If he was going to have to face Madam Pomfrey, he wanted sustenance first.

Professor Smith came by with class schedules. John took his without looking up. Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Potions and Transfiguration. All the classes needed to pursue a career as an Auror. Or a healer. He'd never quite been able to make up his mind between the two. Him mum always said his problem was that he had a hero complex and a helper's instincts. A passing first year bumped into the bench near where he sat, sending his cane clattering to the floor. John stared at it, wondering if this was some sort of heavy-handed message from fate. Not a chance of him being accepted into the Auror program now.

He was jolted from his morbid glare by Lindsay seating herself to his left.

"Transfiguration first thing for you, too?" she asked, munching on a slice of bacon from the tray.

He looked down at the schedule. "Uh – yeah, then a free period, then Defense Against the Dark Arts. There's something to look forward to."

Lindsay threw a glance at the staff table. Smith was talking to McGonagall, his face serious. "Funny thing," she said, turning back to John. "For a second, when he showed me the paper last night, I could have sworn it was blank. But I blinked again, and it was all there like he said."

"Sounds like a Zonko's gag parchment."

Lindsay nodded. "That's what I thought, but why bother? It was barely noticeable. And not really something I expect from a Hogwarts teacher."

"Yes, well, you also didn't expect that one bloke to be a werewolf."

He'd said the words with an edge, trying to shut down the conversation, but she grinned so broadly that he let out a laugh. It was a rough bark of a sound, unfamiliar in his own ears, but somehow comforting to know it could still call itself into action.

Lindsay snagged another piece of bacon and swung off the bench. "C'mon, I bet 'Headmistress McGonagall' is even more of a stickler for punctuality than 'Professor.'"

A period of Transfiguration left his head spinning and his leg even less willing to navigate the stairs, but he resolutely left the queue of Gryffindors headed back to the common room and headed to the hospital wing, hoping to catch Madam Pomfrey at a time when most students would be occupied elsewhere.

She answered his knock with a smile. "And I thought I would have to track you down. Stoic John Watson, the healer with no time for himself."

It was comforting to be back here. He'd been the underground supplier of healing potions and salves to the students the Carrows got their claws into, spending the first month of school sneaking into the hospital wing with various excuses and raiding the cupboards when Madam Pomfrey was occupied. She had become an invaluable ally when she caught him searching the shelves for a burn salve, dripping blood from a cut on his cheek where Amycus had punched him with a ringed hand for interfering with the barbarous punishment. Somewhere between her fixing up his face and his confession of being the one who had been raiding her stores, they'd reached an agreement to help each other.

He held out the crumpled prescription sheepishly and took the chair she indicated. "These are just in case I need them. Not a regular dosage."

"Healer Gillysmythe is no fool," she said. "If he says you need these, you do, and none of your Gryffindor heroics here, young man."

"Guess the time for that's past, isn't it?" he said, face twitching into what he hoped was his armor-plated smile.

Madam Pomfrey turned from searching the tall cabinet. "At least the kind that end up with children fighting an adult's war," she said gently.

He didn't miss the relief on her face, and because he understood her thought, he nodded. She put the vials down in front of him, and he ran his eyes along the labels, though he knew them by heart. The soothing yellow paste to be applied to his shoulder and leg, Dreamless Sleep for the nights he was too tired to face the nightmares, and his particular un-favorite, the Draught of Peace. The healer's well-meaning attempt to medicate his mind did no good, and did not ever expect it to.

"Thanks, Madam Pomfrey," he said, grabbing the vials and standing.

"You know," she said, with a fine attempt at subtlety. "I can always use some help up here. If you want to come and help sort potions and… talk, maybe? About what happens to you, and such."

So Professor McGonagall had shared the entire message. John looked at her wearily and didn't bother pretending any longer. "Nothing happens to me.

Her worried face stayed with him as he hobbled to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom just in time to join the end of the queue as they filed into the room. It had been purged of the awful pictures and general dim grisliness of last year and felt rather as it had their first year when Gilderoy Lockhart's tooth-grinding enthusiasm had set the tone. He stumped to a seat in the middle of the classroom and slung his bookbag to the floor.

"Watson!" It was Robert Cadwallader, a Hufflepuff who had helped organize Dumbledore's Army last year. He raised his hand in a smart salute that made John's stomach lurch unexpectedly.

Robert sported an impressive scar on his right cheek, but looked otherwise hale and hearty. "It's good to be back isn't it?

"I'll let you know at the end of the day," John said. "One class with McGonagall and I feel like a first year who skived off lessons the day we were taught 'swish and flick.'"

"It'll come back easily enough," Robert laughed. "I saw you that night – dragging kids out of that collapsed wall section, shooting jinxes at every Death Eater in spitting distance. Thought you'd go till they knocked the castle down around you. What happened after we got separated?"

John shifted his cane, suddenly, unreasonably impatient. "I guess you could say I got knocked down."

The smile faded inch by inch. Robert cleared his throat. "Well, good to see you back. I'd better find my seat. New professor's here."

John sank into his chair, willing the boiling resentment back down to a slow simmer. He remembered Robert helping him with the frightened fourth and fifth years who'd tried to sneak back after his group had gotten past Filch. That wall falling had been a moment of utter clarity, shouting orders to those who had clustered to lend a hand.

He was pulled back into the present as Professor Smith swept past him to the front of the classroom. Despite the teacher's solemn black robes and impressive pile of books, Smith looked displaced, somehow. Maybe it was the hair – jutting up all over his head, or the red Converse shoes he'd never seen on Wizarding feet, or the way the man's eyes roamed the walls, looking over the students' heads rather than at them. Whatever that parchment he'd shown Lindsay said, Smith looked nervous.

"Well," he said finally. "This year. A brand new year, isn't it?" He strode a few paces to his right. "A fresh start, in a way. And I think it's time our Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum got a fresh start, too."

John snorted along with a brave contingent of the class, neverminding the professor's confused frown. With any luck, Smith would be the sort of professor who routinely forgot homework assignments. He reached carefully into his book bag and pulled out the parchment with his Transfiguration homework. Review the spells listed in chapter 1 and be prepared to perform them next class. Research the origins of interspecies transfiguration and prepare a –

He was suddenly aware that Smith had stopped speaking. He cut his eyes over to the professor, laying the parchment on the empty other half of his desk. The man was flicking his wand rather desperately at the blackboard. Another titter ran around the room.

"Sorry," he said, shaking his wand arm as if to release tension. "It's just – new wand. Unwieldy thing, you know." He laughed, but most of the students did not.

"Would you like some help, Professor?" Only Hermione Granger could ask the question without sounding snide. John almost rolled his eyes.

"No, thank you, Miss… Granger," Smith said, taking a moment to recall her name and locate her in the front row. He took careful aim and sent a precise flick at the blackboard. Words appeared this time.

7th Year Defense Against the Dark Arts Objectives

-To accurately identify and defend against dark creatures

-To achieve proficiency in nonverbal defensive magic

- To learn protective measures that render the previous objectives nearly useless

John caught Lindsay's eyebrow raise and grin from three desks over. The room was slowing filling with whispering as the students got to the end. If he thought he would keep this particular group of Hogwarts students from flexing their dueling skills, he would be sadly surprised.

"Lest you fear this will cut out your all-important dueling time, I assure you that all the objectives listed on the board will be covered," Professor Smith said, twirling his wand idly in his right hand. The sentence was greeted by a muted cheer. "But I want to remind you that the main purpose of this course is to train you how to keep yourselves and those around you safe."

From the spinning wand, a spark of blue light flew into the air, expanding and reforming instantly into a thundercloud that glowed with a great internal bolt of lightning before releasing a deluge across the classroom.

Smith let out an exclamation and pointed his wand at the cloud, his eyes so wide they seemed to take up half his face. The rain only pelted down harder. Several wands pointed to the ceiling, but an unfamiliar male voice was the first to ring out.

"Meteorolojinx recanto."

The cloud dissipated and the room filled with the mutterings of students drying themselves off. John did the same, reaching with a feeling of dread for the parchment with his Transfiguration assignment. The letters had run together beyond hope of recovery. He squinted at it rather desperately. Had it been 4 or 6 feet of parchment on the interspecies transfiguration essay?

Smith had pinpointed the source of the spell. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, thank you. Class, some of you may know Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He's a fifth year, but due to some very impressive exam scores submitted this summer, he's being allowed to take NEWT level courses."

The class turned as one to face the boy on the back row, who returned their gazes with an air of supreme disinterest. John squinted carefully, an incredulous smirk growing on his own face. Yes, the floppy-haired boy was the one he'd helped on the train. He'd seemed even younger when dodging the Slytherin's fists, but it was still quite apparent he was in the wrong class. The other students seemed to agree, based on the low rumble of chatter. John personally didn't care one way or the other – let the lad have a taste of NEWT level homework and he'd likely be begging for his regular fifth year load.

Smith was attempting to regain the students' attention. "So," he said loudly. "One thing I want to introduce immediately is a term-long project. You will be divided into pairs and complete the majority of your homework assignments in teams. Your final grades will reflect not only how well the assignments are done, but the amount of teamwork involved in completing them."

The man really was determined to turn every student against him in one class period, wasn't he? John could see the majority of the Ravenclaws, including Sherlock Holmes, looking positively outraged. Hermione Granger looked slightly ill.

"These assignments will range from research to physical dueling drills, so remember that the library lovers in the class will not necessarily be carrying all the weight. You should bear that in mind when choosing a partner – which you'll be doing right now."

There was a flurry of activity as students stood to locate friends at the desks around them. John cast a glance over at Lindsday, who shrugged her agreement. He'd just turned to reach for his cane when Smith whistled shrilly, halting everyone in their tracks.

"One last thing, though. I don't want you to choose a partner from within your own house. In fact, the less contact you've had with the person the better. Now – allons-y, all of you. I'll give you two minutes to get paired off."

The resultant explosion of sound was the biggest yet. Ginny, Luna and Hermione had queues forming around them, as did a few of the better known members of Dumbledore's Army from the previous year. John took a step toward Robert, but a Slytherin girl had just marched up to him and seemed to be demanding to be his partner. She'd have a rude awakening when she found out that Robert, for all his friendly loyalty, had missed out on the Hufflepuff characteristic of hard work.

He turned on his heel, heading toward the back of the classroom. A Hufflepuff girl was chatting with Lindsay, fingers twisting her chestnut ponytail nervously. John thought he'd seen her at a few DA meetings, but she hadn't made much of an impression. Smith was already beginning to make a circuit of the room, jotting down partner names. A heavy feeling of dread settled in John's chest as he took a few more steps up the aisle. He was going to get stuck with some Slytherin troll, it was inevitable.

One step more, and his eye caught perhaps the only other person still without a partner. Sherlock Holmes. Still leaning back in his seat, eyes darting about, but the rest of his body totally relaxed, he was the picture of disinterest, complete with a scornful look that hinted that even these older students were beneath his notice. John sighed. Not a Slytherin troll, but a Ravenclaw snob was just about the same cross to bear. Still, there seemed to be little alternative.

The boy saw him walking toward him and acknowledged him with an eyebrow raise, but made no move to meet him, despite the fact that John was leaning more heavily on his cane than usual. John gritted his teeth and walked the remaining few paces to the desk.

"John Watson," he said, sticking out his hand. "I don't believe we've met."

"Sherlock Holmes, and no, we haven't." Sherlock took his hand briefly, giving it a millisecond of contact, then releasing it.

"Well then," John said as the seconds ticked by and the noise in the room began to subside. "Fancy partnering for this? I don't seem to have a lot of prospects."

Sherlock started as if from a daydream. "Oh, I thought that was settled."

"Settled? Settled how?" John asked, patience wearing thin with the wunderkind.

"You came over here, introduced yourself, I reciprocated, and we shook hands. This entire sequence never would have happened if you hadn't been looking for someone to pair up with. I, obviously, don't have another partner, and you're still standing here. Only conclusion – we'll be doing Defense Against the Dark Arts homework together this year. By the way, courtyard or castle?"

"What?"

"For the battle," he said impatiently. "Were you inside the castle proper or out in the grounds?"

John stared at him. They'd never met, and this boy certainly hadn't been present at the battle. How, then, did he…

"Alright, then, boys – decided to team up?" Professor Smith asked, stepping up with parchment in hand.

John glanced at Sherlock, who was looking with sudden intensity out one of the windows. Not a promising start, but they were both short on options. He nodded.

"Looks like it."

Professor Smith twirled his quill and put it to the parchment."Got it. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.