Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Any version of it. I also do not own the Harry Potter series. This applies to all future chapters. It you know it's not mine, then rest assured that I'm not trying to claim it is-I'm just borrowing it. And not making any sort of profit.

A bit of background: Sherlock and Mycroft are pureblood wizards. They attended an exclusive school with smaller class-sizes and more specialized learning. Mycroft works at a minor position in the Ministry of Magic. Sherlock is, as of yet, unemployed. Sherlock has very little magic. He never got the hang of accidental magic and could never control it like Mycroft could as a child. As a result, he struggles to perform any charm more difficult than lumos. Transfiguration and defensive spells are an enormous effort. He did poorly in History because it was simply boring. However, despite his struggles, he's a genius in other areas and holds a mastery in Arithmancy, Potions, and Divination. He's also competent in Ancient Runes and most aspects of Herbology. He never bothered with Care of Magical Creatures.

Enjoy!

CHAPTER 1

Sherlock stepped into the Hog's Head, crinkling his nose in open disgust, his clean suit standing out sharply in the run-down place. His eyes wandered across the dirty floors and surfaces and the scraggly features of the several occupants. Snorting at the idiocy of the entire situation, he gave a curt nod to the bartender, who had been determinately scowling at him for the past few seconds, and lowered himself carefully into a chair across from a slightly older gentleman with thinning brown hair and expensively tailored robes.

"Why are we here?" Sherlock asked carefully. He thought he knew the reason, or at least the likely reason—his current tablemate had been bothering him about getting a job for months—but this man was one of the few who was capable of fooling him.

"You have a job interview." Sherlock's scowl deepened. The man in the tailored robes cast a quick glance at a woman with bushy brown hair and thick glasses who was at the bar ordering a sherry.

"For what?"

The man quickly shifted his gaze back over to Sherlock. "The interview is in about thirty seconds. I suggest you prepare yourself." He paused as an old man with a silver beard and startlingly unfashionable robes entered the pub and went to speak quietly with the barkeeper, who was probably related to him based on the resemblance. "And if you don't take his job, you will be on your own. I will not go on supporting you, Brother."

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled. "What is the job?"

Mycroft smiled and said nothing as the old man came from the bar to their table. "Mr. Holmes?" he inquired.

Mycroft inclined his head towards Sherlock and the old man turned to face the much younger one. Sherlock did not look at the visitor, preferring to continue glaring daggers at his older brother.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned.

"Yes," Sherlock said suddenly. He stood and faced the old man, his eyes scanning over him to collect any pertinent information. He cleared his throat slightly before speaking. "Nearly one hundred years of age. A teacher—no, retired teacher. Headmaster? Yes, maybe-probably at that school over on the hills. Brother of the rather irritated-looking bartender—your relationship is tense. You've broken your nose twice, but never had it properly healed, indicating you feel a certain amount of guilt over the incidents leading up to the injuries. Homosexual, but no current partner—probably a bad breakup. You've just come from having tea where you consumed at least two cups of standard peppermint tea, three rather ordinary biscuits, and then a hard sweet. You came in looking more bored than anything else, meaning that whichever position you're trying to fill, you don't much care for it. Based on current public trends and recent magical advanced, it's most likely the Divinations position. Whatever my brother has told you, I'm not interested."

He started to walk away, but came to a stop when he heard his brother cough. "Yes, Mycroft." There was no response, so he turned his head back towards the table to look. Mycroft caught him with a piercing glare and a warning raised eyebrow. Sighing, he turned all the way back around. Mycroft was right. He couldn't support himself without income and based on the teacher's dislike for the subject, he wouldn't be expected to do a great job anyway, which would give him more time for his own projects.

Sherlock extended his hand to shake that of the old man. "Sherlock Holmes. I'd be…happy to apply for the position."

The old man looked quite shocked, but quickly composed himself and shook the proffered hand. "Yes…well, shall we?" He indicated a hallway and Sherlock reluctantly followed him into a small private room.

When they had both sat, the old man spoke again. "Would you care for tea, Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement and leaned back in his chair. "That was an impressive display, although you could have gotten any of that information from good research."

"I wasn't informed of the interview until a few moments before you arrived and I haven't the foggiest idea who you are."

The old man frowned. "You don't know who I am?"

Sherlock frowned right back. Was this man really so dense? He hated repeating himself.

"Well, I'm not used to any degree of anonymity. It is refreshing, though. My name is Albus Dumbledore. I am headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, among other things. I'm sure my picture was in the Daily Prophet only three days ago."

Sherlock nodded. "I've been living in the," he hesitated over the word, "muggle world. I don't follow wizarding news."

"Probably safest that way, during these times of war. However, I can assure you that Hogwarts is absolutely safe."

Sherlock looked skeptical. "I can protect myself."

"Yes, well… What are your qualifications?"

Sherlock repressed a sigh and leaned back in his chair. This was going to be very boring.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ridiculous questions and absentmindedly pushed the dark curls back out of his face. "I believe you will find three of my prophesies on record in the hall, although at least six have already been fulfilled and many others were never filed as they were not 'prophetic' in the terms of the ministry. However, as much as you'd like to be able to measure a divinations teacher on how well they apply the subject material, that's not how it works. Divinations is a complex branch of magic, but almost none of it has anything to do with actual prophesies. Almost all of the subject has to do with making observations and turning those observations into predictions. For example, based on the lifeline on your palm, your current age, your magical aura, the high-risk situation we are currently living in, and several other factors I'd rather not take the time to explain, involving quite a lot of arithmancy and basic application of general knowledge, I can predict that your death will occur sometime in the year of 1997."

Professor Dumbledore looked quite shocked and took a moment to regain his composure. "Yes. There is one more applicant I have yet to interview. The real question, before you go Mr. Holmes, is are you capable of teaching the subject to the students who wish to learn it?"

Sherlock paused for a moment before nodding his head. Yes, it would probably be worth getting Mycroft off his back. Besides, if it was too much of a hassle, he could always quit. "Yes. However, the other applicant—was she at the bar earlier?"

"Yes. Sybil Trelawney. I don't have high hopes for her, but I did promise an interview."

"Don't bother. She's an alcoholic and a fraud. She knows nothing of the field and only aspires to it because she is nearly incapable of any other magic."

Dumbledore rose from his seat and extended his hand to Sherlock. "In that case, Mr. Holmes, you are hired. The school term begins September 1st. You are welcome to join us at the castle any time before then."

Sherlock nodded again and, ignoring the offered hand, stepped around the old man to leave the room. He jogged down the hall and exited the pub without a backward glance. Dumbledore was left dumbfounded. He exited the room as well—slowly—and made his way back out to the main area. With a false smile, he greeted the other applicant, staying only long enough to tell her the position had been filled before returning to the castle.

About a half an hour later, after several more sherries and quite a lot of tears, Sybil Trelawney made a prediction. A prediction which went entirely unnoticed as the drunken ramblings of a depressed and misguided young woman. It was automatically recorded in the hall of prophesies, but no one looked for it and it was several long months before it was found and received a closer look.

I know! I'm sorry! I know I'm supposed to be updating my other stories. I also know I said I wouldn't be doing anything until June. However, this idea was being distracting and I absolutely had to write it down, so I thought that at least you guys could enjoy this little bit in mean time.

Thanks for reading! I'd appreciate any reviews you'd care to offer.

-MP