The full extent of Harry's power was driven home that night. The moon had waned to a bare sliver and Holmes was late coming home. Harry and I took the man's tardiness in stride, and enjoyed a quiet evening by the fire. Alas, such quiet tableaus never last at Baker Street. Half past eleven, our door was flung open door with sufficient force to rattle the tea set.

Holmes barreled into the room with wild eyes. "Harry. Case. Assistance. Now."

Harry leapt from his chair, pulled on his shoes, and laced them with frantic fingers. I, not wishing to be left behind, threw on my coat.

"It's the middle of the night," I said, "What's all the hurry?"

"No time," said Holmes, motioned for Harry to follow him.

We rushed down the stairs and out onto the street. Holmes began jogging east. He wove through the London streets and byways, and led us to the center of a large park. Away from immediate city lights, I was struck by how dark the night truly was. What little moonlight may have shown was masked by veils of cloud.

Holmes turned to Harry, speaking rapidly. "Not one hour ago, two men stood near this parks center. They came separately and left together. I need to know which direction they left."

Harry nodded, and his eyes changed from green to the golden herald of Midas Sight. He ran to and fro through the grass with Holmes always at his heels. Within mere minutes the tracks were found. Two sets of prints led to the park's western edge and disappeared down a dark alley.

"Good lad," said Holmes. In a thrice, faster than Harry or I could follow, the detective had bolted. He reached the alley's end in a twinkling, and scaled the rear fence with all the grace of a jungle cat in his natural habitat.

I was not aware at the time, but that night marked a turning point in the mind of Harry Holmes-Potter. It was the first night that he, through fortuitous circumstance and natural advantage, had in some small way bested the greatest detective alive.

-Excerpt from A Study in Magic, by John Watson, MD

-oOo-

Harry was accustomed to long nights, in the fashion of his adoptive father. Sherlock was not one who gave easily to the demands of too-weak flesh. The detective would often spend the night deep in thought, pacing back and forth like a great cat searching for prey. Long nights were spent waiting on bubbling beakers, or poring over obscure directories, searching. Searching for that one crucial clue.

Years of such nights had turned Harry into something of a night owl. Truth be told, he now found his best thoughts came once night had fallen. It was not an excessive habit, nor overly harmful, but ideas came in the quiet moments for Harry, and when was more quiet found, if not at night?

First to arrive in the in the dormitories, Harry found the beds had already been assigned, clearly marked by student's trunks at the foot of each bed.

After a furtive glance at the dorm entrance, Harry went to his trunk and pulled open it's largest drawer, revealing the descending staircase. He hadn't missed the curious looks from dinner, and didn't fancy playing twenty questions with inquisitive first-years. Besides, he reasoned, what use was magic furniture if one never used it?

He mounted the steps and pulled the drawer shut behind him.

The room was just as he remembered, and Harry wasted no time making himself at home. He drug a small table next to the ever-crackling fireplace, and set out some parchment and quills. It was an old habit, for when he had too many thoughts crammed into his skull. Holmes might be able to juggle a thousand thoughts inside his head, but Harry preferred the surety of ink and paper.

Dipping a quill, he began to write "Facts", but only got as far as the letter "c". The quill spat and splattered ink everywhere. Harry glared at the quill before setting down a fresh piece of parchment.

Some time later, a very speckled and blotched letter was finished. It read, "If convenient, please send pens. If inconvenient, send anyway. -HHP."

Harry climbed back up the stairs, and pondered the exact particulars of mailing by owl. Could you even send mail to the muggle world? Cracking the drawer open, he checked to make sure the coast was clear, and slid back the drawer.

To his surprise, a quiet hoot sounded from above. He looked up and bit back a yelp. Hedwig sat atop his trunk not three inches away, with huge, unblinking eyes.

Holding the letter out, Harry whispered, "For Sherlock Holmes, 221 B, Baker Street."

Hedwig stared, and he was just starting to feel foolish when she gave an unmistakable nod, snatched the letter in her beak, and flew out a nearby window.

Harry descended back to the den, sank into a chair by the fire, and idly pondered the odds of Hedwig waiting just as he came out, just as he needed her.

-oOo-

Tap. TapTap.

Harry woke with a start, and sleepily blinked around.

TapTapTap.

A persistent came from the ceiling. With a yawn, Harry hauled himself from the chair and mounted the stairs. He carefully slid back the entrance, and was relieved to see Hedwig impatiently tapping her beak on the trunk lid. She clicked her beak and thrust a leg at him. Five ballpoint pens encircled the appendage, held in place by a rubber band. He removed them and discovered a small note wrapped beneath.

The paper was scrawled with Sherlock's loose, flowing script. "Cheap. Convenient. Kippers only fare."

Harry grinned. Hedwig must have nabbed some dinner leftovers. He scratched the back of her neck. "Aren't you just the cleverest owl in England? You made great time." Harry took in the still-empty dorm. How long had he dozed off? If no one had come to bed yet...surely it had been longer than a few minutes? He gave "Actually, you might have made impossible time."

Hedwig straightened regally, ruffled her feathers, and swooped out the window.

-oOo-

At three o'clock in the morning, Harry wearily crawled from his trunk into bed. As his eyes drooped shut, he imagined Sherlock's common lament:

"Data, data, data. I cannot make bricks without clay."

-oOo-

Something roused Harry to, in his opinion, an entirely too early morning. Someone was shook his shoulder, and he tried to focus some sudden sudden sounds.

"Harry? Harry, wake up."

Harry turned over with a groan, and observed a blurry form beside his bed. A few blinks, and the fuzzy blur focused into Neville Longbottom. "What time's it?" he asked.

Neville held forth a cheese sandwich. "Almost time for first class. And you missed breakfast. Hermione asked about you."

Harry rubbed some sleep from his eyes and grabbed the sandwich. He made short work of the cheddar and toast, and leapt out of bed. Neville stood back as Harry walked into the shared bathroom, only taking the time to wash his face and brush his teeth. Morning rituals complete, he returned to the foot of his bed, opened a side compartment of his trunk, and began rummaging deeper than seemed physically possible.

"What's first class?" asked Harry.

"Transfiguration with McGonagall. And you don't want to be late. That's what I heard, at least."

Harry pulled out a set of school robes. "Oh? And what do you hear?"

"They say she's a right taskmaster. Better hurry."

Harry threw the robes on, right over his wrinkled pajamas, and bent down to tie his shoes. "You know, I wasn't overly enthusiastic about the whole robe thing, but they do have advantages, don't they?"

"I...guess?"

"Hmm. You know, my father has this saying. Observation is the highest evidence."

"Huh?"

Harry stood. "Second-hand evidence- what they say- is always suspect. Conclusions are reserved for that happy time when you've observed the facts for yourself."

Neville's gave a slow, tentative nod. Harry buttoned the robes over his nightwear, and motioned for him to lead the way.

-oOo-

As it turned out, they were among the first to arrive. The pair walked into the sparsely populated classroom and immediately noticed Hermione. It was hard not to, with her waving enthusiastically at them. Harry sat next to her, in the front row, with Neville taking a seat beside him.

"Morning!" said Hermione, "I didn't see you at breakfast?"

Harry pulled a notebook from the collar of his robes. "If split between, I prefer sleep over food."

Neville wondered where Harry had pulled the notebook, and resolved to ask later. Hermione also looked like she had something to say, but the words died in her throat when Harry brought out a ball point pen.

"That's cheating!" she said.

"What?"

Neville leaned in to peer at the obviously muggle device.

Hermione brandished a quill at Harry's head. "We're supposed to use quills!"

"I'm sure the professors wouldn't refuse my need for the comforting familiarity of home."

Hermione huffed, glared at her quill, and muttered something under her breath. Harry caught the words "trampling" and "tradition". He grinned.

"What is it?" asked Neville.

Harry twirled the pen expertly. "This is a writing instrument. A ball-point pen."

"What about your inkwell?"

"No need. All the ink is stored inside."

Harry signed his name at the notebook's top, and watched Neville's eyebrows climb upwards. Hermione pulled out some parchment, gave Harry a pointed look, and signed her name with an elaborate flourish. Not a single stray speck of ink marred the paper.

By the end of class, Harry's brain was reeling at the potentials of transfiguration, Hermione proved herself a rather dab hand at magic, and Neville wanted a pen of his own.

-oOo-

So far, thought Harry, not a bad day. Most of his classes had been engaging and informative, even if they were a magnitude less stressful than the lessons he'd become accustomed to. Charms with the hyperactive Professor Flitwick had been particularly fascinating. The diminutive man moved with a fluid, understated grace. Harry had seen that same grace in one of Sherlock Holmes' old clients, a retired fencing instructor. The professor exhibited an impressively precise economy of movement that bespoke years of some physical discipline.

And then…there was Snape. Of all the things he had observed today, the Potions Master was by far the most perplexing. For some reason Harry could not fathom, Snape hated him. The man fed his emotions with an unrestrained intensity that Harry found almost disturbing.

In the face of that bizarre anger, Harry had opted for silence, and resorted to merely shrugging in ignorance whenever a question was asked of him. His mute responses had infuriated the professor, but mercifully forced the man's attention elsewhere. Harry hoped his passive resistance would cool the man's unbridled aggressiveness. If it did not, perhaps the Headmaster would see fit to intervene.

With a shake of his head, Harry pushed thoughts of Snape to the back of his mind. Later he might give more thought to the matter, now was not the time.

At the moment he was waiting, once again with Hermione and Neville, for the day's last class to begin. Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Harry admitted it sounded promising, and his classmates certainly seemed to agree. The students were charged with excitement, eagerly waiting for Hogwart's most dangerous class to begin.

Without warning, the room's door slammed open. Wound as they were, more than half the class jumped in their seats. A young man, fairly oozing confidence, strode towards the front of the room. Harry watched closely. The professor wore dark purple robes, a tightly wound turban, and carried himself with the same dangerous grace as Flitwick. The man stepped behind the professors podium and swept the room with a measured gaze.

The professor spoke with a clear, unwavering voice. Though his volume was conversational, the words easily carried throughout the room. "Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Introductions. I am Professor Quirrell, or Professor, or Sir. Simple and to the point, introductions are over."

Harry smiled. He couldn't quite place it, but this professor reminded him of someone.

Quirrell leaned against the podium, a perfect picture of relaxed ease. "Before we begin, I'd like to make one thing perfectly clear. This class will not be about memorizing spell lists. It will not have multiple choice tests. And it will most certainly not be about turning in twelve inch essays by Monday."

Harry didn't have to look, he could feel Hermione's horror coming off in waves.

"Some of you will not approve of my teaching style. To those I say this: You cannot defend yourself with an essay. Although, it may be possible to give someone a paper cut." A few students laughed, and he smiled. "But why bother with paper cuts when diffindo can take off an arm?"

No one laughed.

"Make no mistake," said Quirrell, "The only purpose of this class is to teach you defense. Defense against what, you ask? Tell me. Yes, you in the front row."

The professor pointed directly at Neville. Harry was suitably impressed when the shy boy managed to squeak out two words, even if their pitch approached levels undetectable by human ears.

"D-dark Arts?"

Quirrell stared at Neville for a moment, and raised a solitary eyebrow. "Succinctly said, Mr. Longbottom. One point to Ravenclaw, for a personal achievement, if nothing else."

Harry beheld the gratified shock on Neville's face, and felt his appreciation for this new professor growing by the second.

"Dark Arts," said Quirrell, "As in Dark Magic. As in dark wizards or witches trying to inflict harm on your person."

The professor scowled. "The ministry mandates a very specific curriculum for this class. It seems explicitly designed to fill your heads with the most ridiculous, convoluted methods of defense known to bureaucrats. And almost exclusively against magical creatures.

The scowl deepened. "You'll find this philosophy spills over into your other classes. For instance, your herbology books recommend a way to escape a nasty subterranean plant called the Devil's Snare. They suggest a spell designed to emit light carefully calibrated to the same UV spectrum as natural sunlight."

Quirrell rolled his eyes. "Apparently, the ministry hopes you can remember this obscure and extremely limited incantation in addition to all your other spells. Other spells you will be expected to memorize for tests. These will eventually number in the many dozens."

Student's sat in shock as Quirrell tore into their educational system. Harry listened with rapt attention as the professor mowed on.

"If by fluke or stupidity you find yourself caught by a Devil's Snare, a simple cutting curse comes highly recommended." Quirrell sighed. It was a sound filled to the brim with long-suffering at the hands of idiots. "And please, please refrain from bringing up apparation. If it was up to me, I'd teach you all before the year was out. Now, any questions?"

Harry immediately raised his hand.

"Mr. Potter, you have the floor."

"If it's not too off topic, professor, I was curious about your turban. Not a typical fashion statement, if I may say so."

Many students turned to regard the Boy Who Lived with confusion. Some spattered laughter died when it became evident that Harry was, in fact, completely serious.

Quirrell nodded to himself, as if some personal theory had been confirmed. "This," he pointed at the turban, "Was a gift received after rendering services to a certain West European dignitary. The man had a werewolf problem, I had a solution."

Reaching up, he removed the headpiece and spun it briefly on the end of a finger. Without the turban he appeared older, more distinguished. Standing straight with close cropped hair, he gave off a distinctly military impression. "I do not use it, as some rumors have suggested, to store garlic. If anyone here is ever unfortunate to meet a vampire, please note that garlic is completely ineffective. In that situation, apparating away is generally considered a top option. Next question."

Harry's odd query had effectively broken the ice, and a sea of hands rose. Hermione's was up first by a healthy margin.

-oOo-

Sherlock Holmes was depressed. Quite honestly, not a very unusual emotional state for him. Black moods had always taken him at the slightest provocation, but this one seemed an unusually fine specimen of negative disposition. Harry had only been gone two days and Watson was already commenting on his touchy disposition.

Holmes sat near the window, blowing tobacco smoke out into the cold night. Even with Harry gone, the habit persisted.

So bored. He could almost feel his mental capacities rusting away. He needed a case soon, and not the piddling matters would-be clients tried to push on him. Just the other day a woman came and asked him to locate her husband; she was convinced the man was having an affair.

Holmes angrily struck his pipe into an ashtray. Ridiculous. He had kept the confidence of kings, and these…these people saw fit to pester him with their petty problems.

The morose detective looked down at the empty London street, hoping to catch sight of a mugging. One would expect a plethora of cases, with degenerates all but bursting from the city's seams.

But then, he sullenly thought, even with a case in hand, one could never be assured of adequate mental stimulation. Criminals of brilliance were rare as any form of genius.

Such internal grousing was cut short when he Holmes felt his knees give out. He crumpled to the floor without a sound, and bit his lip against the sudden migraine that speared his mind.

Consciousness faded with merciful quickness.

-oOo-

Holmes groaned and pushed up onto his hands and knees, the detective opened his eyes to a stark white floor. He couldn't help but smile through the pain.

Baker Street had floors of wood.

Finally, some excitement.

He stood with a wince, and took stock of his surroundings. He was in a white room. Very white. Smooth, pure white floors, ceiling and walls. The space was harshly lit, despite no light source being readily apparent.

Against one wall leaned a pale man, watching him with a bored sort of confidence.

Holmes knew instinctively the man was not a nice person, for lack of a better word. Though how he knew this, he couldn't quite say. Maybe it was the eyes.

Yes, he decided, definitely the eyes. Like a snake, the man had had slits for pupils.

Holmes pocketed his and leaned against a wall of his own. "It's only fair to warn you," he said, "I'll fetch a very low ransom."

The man grinned. "So calm, Mr. Holmes. So very not intimidated. I wonder, would the calm would last if you knew where you were?"

"Try me."

The man chuckled. "You know, you're living up to my expectations admirably," he then laid a hand on the wall behind him. To Holmes' astonishment, a window appeared.

A chill settled into his bones, and the detective walked forward. "Magic, I assume?"

The wizard nodded with a smile grown impossibly wide.

Holmes looked through the window and observed...his Baker Street apartment? And there he was. There on the floor, crumpled next to the open window, was himself.

"Curious," said Holmes. He threw a shoulder against the thin glass, frowning as it held without a single crack. "And rather pointless. Some sort of magical coma?"

"You wound me, Sherlock. A coma?" The wizard waved, and then disappeared without a sound.

Holmes spun around, expecting some underhanded attack, but none came. After a wary moment, he turned back to the window, and watched incredulously as his other self stirred. His body turned, stared directly at him through the little window, and winked.

Thoroughly disturbed, he watched as his body once again collapsed.

"What do you think?"

Turning slowly on his heel, Holmes thoughtfully regarded the re-appeared snake-man. "Many things. But mostly, I think your plan is doomed to failure."

"Oh?"

"Of course. A wizard, of questionable moral character, suddenly comes to…shall we use the term possess?"

The wizard looked disgusted. "Let's not. I'd hate for you to taint the concept of magic with your silly muggle ideas. We'll keep it simple. Just call it a sort of enforced, one-way schizophrenia."

Holmes squashed down his rising nerves, and continued. "Very well. A wizard comes to... acquire and partition the mind of Sherlock Holmes, a man who, among other distinctions, is the legal guardian of the Boy Who Lived. Coincidence does not begin to describe such an occurrence. Obviously, your target is Harry Potter. Unfortunately, as I said, your attempt will fail."

The wizard seemed unperturbed by Holmes's prediction. "An amusing notion."

"Is it?"

Annoyance flickered across the wizard's face. "Typical, unfounded muggle confidence. In time, the matter won't even concern you."

Now that, thought Holmes, does not sound promising. "Some horrible fate awaits me, then?"

"Of course," said the wizard, mimicking the detective's earlier tone, "Consciousness, once trapped within itself, faces inevitable deterioration."

Holmes remained outwardly calm, but the words struck painfully. They flayed open his greatest fear, the black thought that visited during his darkest depressions. The line between genius and insanity was so very thin. Only Holmes himself knew how closely he toed that line. Sometimes, on his worst days, he felt it bending.

Betrayal by friends did not concern the detective. Betrayal by his own mind terrified him beyond fear.

A wave from the wizard and the window vanished, leaving behind a smooth white wall. "Goodbye, Sherlock. Try to enjoy the time you have left."

It was a guess, but given the circumstances, Holmes indulged. "Likewise, Voldemort."

Snake eyes bored into the detective's unflinching eyes, until, without a word or sound, the wizard vanished.

Holmes sighed, crouched, and lay upon the hard floor. He closed his eyes and could hear, as if from a great distance, the faint sound of violins.