Holmes' smoking was an act I discouraged for years to no avail. When Harry was adopted, I'd hoped the child's presence would put an end to Holmes' addiction. Such hopes proved unfounded. The eccentric detective merely added another strange habit to his repertoire.
When the mood for smoke proved too great, my friend would do so outside. Raising a window and placing his entire torso outside, Holmes would grasp the interior wall and lean over the busy street below. Like a great gargoyle he stayed thus, smoking for extended periods of time with no apparent strain.
When Pomfrey discovered Sherlock's addiction, the medi-witch deemed such insufficient. She chastised me in particular, being a fellow medical practitioner. How could I, she asked, allow smoking in a home with children?
Holmes' listened stoically; sure his beloved vice was finally facing the gallows. Imagine my surprise (and Holmes' delight) when Madam Pomfrey did not end his pungent pastime. The good nurse instead provided potions. After each smoking session, the whole family was to ingest one dose of Lung Lifter. The concoction would restore our damaged respiratory systems, and even repair past damage.
Holmes, being a skilled chemist, was fascinated. Though I can never catch my old friend with it, Harry's entry potions text seems distinctly dog-eared of late.
-Excerpt from A Study in Magic, by John Watson, MD
-oOo-
It did not take long for the more observant students to notice and wonder. Just where did Harry Potter sneak to after dinner? The Boy Who Lived always left early, skipped off in the vague direction of the Ravenclaw dormitories, and promptly disappeared from the face of the earth.
Older students gave sage little smirks. Invisibility, they thought. Not bad for a first year. But this was Harry Potter, after all.
More mischievous students nodded slyly to one another. Every good prankster and sneak knew at least a few secret passages. They had to admit, the Potter kid caught on fast.
It never crossed anyone's mind (save perhaps Hermione Granger's) that the Boy Who Lived spent his secret hours studying. Or more accurately, experimenting. In the secure confines of his trunk, he would whittle away hours reading, writing, casting, thinking, and pacing. Those sessions would consume him until the early hours of morning.
At the moment, he was lying on the floor and pointing his wand at a pen some feet away.
"Tractus," he said. The pen rolled toward him.
"Pulsus," and the pen rolled away.
He rose and went to a desk cluttered with paper. He chose a mostly clean parchment form the mess and scribbled some notes. As he wrote with one hand, another reached down the front of his shirt and fumbled for the mokeskin pouch.
"One cracker," he said, and promptly devoured the appearing pastry. The best thing about carrying things in a mokeskin, in Harry's opinion, was you never had to worrying about stuff getting smushed.
"Beverage thermos."
Of course, he thought, sipping hot pumpkin juice, you still had to contend with cracker crumbs. But even those baked nuisances were easily dealt with. Just tip the bag upside down and call for crumbs.
Harry finished his notes and stretched, easing the stiffness from sore muscles. Piles of books lay scattered about the floor. Some gathered dust in forlorn corners, others lay open. All were casualties in a war of learning.
The most useful ones were kept on the couch, ready and waiting. Among them was Magical Theory 101; So You Wanna Cast Wandless?; Gertrude's Giant Grimoire: England's Best Spell Index; and Wandless Incantations: Patrick Pogglesnock's Entry Primer for the Serious Student.
After exhaustive reading and experimentation, Harry had come to some conclusions.
First off, tomorrow he would mail order a copy of Gertrude's Grimoire. The tome didn't contain spells for dueling, but boasted a near-complete catalogue of household and general incantations. With a page count approaching one thousand, the book was truly massive, and printed with such tiny letters that it came with a free set of magnifying Gryphon Goggles. Gertrude's Grimoire enjoyed massive popularity with magical England's housewife population, but found precious little favor anywhere else.
Harry thought it might be the best book he'd ever read.
Already it had proved enormously useful by providing the simple Tractus and Pulsus incantations for his last experiment. The book contained a spell for literally everything he had thought up thus far. Sometime this week, he really would have to ask a professor about spell crafting. Did the government approve, regulate, and craft spells? Maybe freelance artisans created them on a commission basis? Whatever the case, Harry could not imagine the system that spurred someone to create incantations that caused one's clothing to billow dramatically (the spell's description suggested it be applied to capes, and assured the reader that yes, the effect was monumentally impressive).
New spells aside, the most pressing questions arose soon after he delved into books on wandless magic.
Just what had Sherlock Holmes taught him?
For years he'd trained magic in conjunction with the deductive arts, but no matter how many books Harry read, he could not find an example or explanation for his Midas Sight. By definition, it wasn't wandless magic. It lacked that discipline's concrete framework and structure. Neither did it match descriptions of accidental magic. The ability almost seemed a cross between the two. Was it possible, with an unbiased and unique upbringing, that one could develop unique forms of magical expression?
Harry recalled Dumbledore's dire warnings about ocular magic, and resolved to keep such singular abilities to himself, at least for now.
-oOo-
The next morning found Harry Potter sleeping soundly at the Ravenclaw table. He was dreaming of lying on a bed of the softest marshmallows imaginable. The fluffy sweets called to him in marshmallowy, sing-song voices.
"Comfy, Harry?" they asked in warm, comforting tones. "Even brilliant detectives have to rest sometime, Harry. Harry? HARRY!"
The Boy Who Lived jolted from dreamland, and snapped up like a mousetrap. He blearily looked around and gave voice to his confusion with a few choice words.
"Blizbug? Wha' izzit?" he asked, yawning. Harry sleepily noted Neville looking very blurry this morning, when giggles to the left drew his attention. He turned, and Hermione's unfocused face came into view. Harry vigorously rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and clarity returned.
"What?" he asked.
"Breakfast's almost done," said Hermione.
Harry gave his best baleful glare. "I was sleeping."
Hermione didn't seem impressed with the glare. Harry resolved to work on it. "So I noticed," she retorted, "In a plate of eggs."
He turned his attention to the table and found, sure enough, a plate of (admittedly, very comfortable) scrambled eggs. In their center was a vaguely head-shaped impression.
Confronted with the faux pas, Harry's brain rerouted all processing power from such silly things as motor functions to more pressing matters, like Operation Social Salvage. Unfortunately, life with Sherlock Holmes significantly lowered his ability to carry off such an operation. He was still trying to calculate a proper response when Neville unintentionally came to the rescue by giving a small, unobtrusive cough.
Harry immediately swung around and gave his fellow classmate complete and undivided attention. The quick motion seemed to catch Neville off guard. "Yes, Neville? Something you wanted to say? Take your time, Hermione and I give you our full attention."
Hermione gave a lady-like snort. "You can't sidestep a problem just by-"
Harry cut her off with a wave. "Neville speaks."
With a sigh, Hermione relented. She and Harry leaned towards Neville, an action which disconcerted the shy boy, who leaned slightly back. He looked back and forth between his attentive friends (maybe too attentive), and gave another small cough. "Uh, I was just reminding Harry we have Defense after breakfast?"
"Excellent point Neville," said Harry. He nodded his head wisely. "It just wouldn't do to be late, would it? Best be off."
That said, Harry jumped up from the table and strode off in the direction of the Defense classroom, grabbing slices of toast from tables as he went. The toast, to more than one individual's unrest, was pushed down the front of his robe.
"Best be off?" whispered a fifth year to his mate, "Shouldn't be hard. Potter's already off his rocker."
Against that statement, no argument came forth.
-oOo-
Harry was understandably early for class. No matter, he thought. One had to wait either way, but at least in class you didn't have to worry about plates of eggs. He'd washed his face on the way over, but still smelled vaguely delicious, in an eggy sort of way.
Come to think of it, he was certain Gertrude's Grimoire listed odor neutralizing spells. He pulled the library book (and complimentary Gryphon Goggles) from his ever-present mokeskin, deftly donned the eyewear, and began flipping pages.
"Busy, Mr. Potter?"
At the sound of Professor Quirrell's voice, Harry stilled. "That," he thought, "Should not be possible."
To sneak up behind him on a hardwood floor, while wearing long robes, in perfect silence should not have been possible. Sherlock Holmes himself could not have accomplished it. The only possible solution was magic. Not that such explanations did anything to salvage his pride.
Harry turned around, only to be confronted by an enormous eyeball.
...Wait.
He reached up, pulled off the magnification goggles, and sighed with relief. The defense professor stood still, wearing a neutral expression.
Harry nodded in greeting. "Just a bit of reading, Professor."
Quirrell walked to the desk's front, and Harry observed the man still made not the slightest sound. It was as if Quirrell moved about in his own personal vacuum.
Harry was sure the Defense Professor hadn't pulled that trick during their first class, but it was hard to recall at the moment.
"Unusual reading material," said Quirrell.
"How so?" asked Harry, determined to show just how undisturbed he was.
"It's not everyday you see students reading Gertrude's Grimoire."
"Can't imagine why. I thought it was brilliant."
Quirrell smirked. "I imagine it has something to do with keeping up one's reputation. Young wizards avoid the book like a plague. Supposedly, only doddering housewives read the Grimoire."
"It does have," Harry pointed out, "Over one million spells."
Quirrell shrugged. "But no dueling spells. Isn't that what the kids are about these days? Dueling?"
"I wouldn't know. Muggleborn, you know."
"Ah, but suppose you had to conjure serpents of living fire to devour your enemies, only to find," Quirrell paused, shaking his head sadly, "That the Grimoire lists no such spell."
"No disrespect, really really, no disrespect to people who can cast all-devouring serpents of living fire, but it seems a little...over done."
Quirrell laughed, a sharp sound that reminded Harry of gunshots. "Exactly, Mr. Potter. Exactly. You'll find that wizards tend to overdo a lot of things. Duels seem especially prone to that tendency. Thank you for the lesson plan."
"Les-"
A group of students noisily entered the room, and Quirrell started the walk to his podium.
"-son plan?"
The class trickled in, Hermione and Neville sitting as usual, on either side of him. Only after everyone arrived did Quirrell speak. It was then Harry discovered what the professor meant.
"Welcome again to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Today's lesson: Dueling."
Unless it was coincidence, which Harry rather doubted, Quirrell was improvising class off the cuff.
"First," said Quirrell, "What exactly is a duel? No need to raise your hand, just shout out an answer."
Harry heard a few chairs scrape in the silence. Someone cleared their throat. Beside him, Hermione squirmed around in her chair. Harry wondered if the no hand raising thing was throwing her off.
Quirrell's look of disappointment was what pushed Hermione over the edge. His look was not of the, "Oh, too bad they're so shy" variety. It seemed to say, "Pity. They're just as pathetic as I imagined."
"A competition," she said, voice ringing out.
"One point to Ravenclaw. Given the apparent reticence, I'll randomly choose students for today's exercise. When called, name the spell for winning a duel scenario of your choice. Starting with you." The professor pointed at the back row.
A brown-haired kid pointed to himself uncertainly. Quirrell nodded, and the kid licked his lips nervously. "Um, the duel. The duel's in a...hallway. Yeah, in one of the hallways, and the spell could be...expelliarmus?"
"There we go," said Quirrell, "Not so hard, is it? But please, I'm not asking how you'd conduct yourself in a duel. These are hypothetical situations. Impress me. Show some imagination. You, go."
One could not deny the next student's creativity. His example had the loser's wand hand bitten off by a summoned griffon. After that scenario (which elicited a few gasps from the girls, and grins from the boys) the students cut loose, each trying to one-up the previous example. Cages of unbreakable ice, clever illusions, lava pits, and dragons all made appearances.
"Well," said Quirrell, after a dozen students had gone, "I certainly can't fault your imaginations." The professor looked straight at Harry. "Very...impressive. In true wizard about a go, Mr. Potter? Who knows? Maybe you can top everything thus far."
Harry grinned. "The setting is a cauldron shop. The spell is tractus."
Though Quirrell's face took on a chiding expression, his eyes sparkled with amusement. The professor waggled an index figure dramatically. "Tractus was not designed to disarm or incapacitate an opponent, Mr. Potter. I believe you're referring to a 'household spell', and one which possesses the approximate inherent lethality of a sponge."
A few students giggled, one or two guffawed.
"Maybe," said Harry, "But it can still pull a cauldron off a shelf. Right onto someone's head."
The professor gave another gunshot laugh. "Another point to Ravenclaw, for exhibiting a core dueling principle. Minimum effort, maximum effect. Duels are not the clean squabbles you read in stories. Before the fight even begins a duelist can be exhausted, injured, outnumbered, or magically impaired in more fashions than I care to list."
Quirrell slapped his podium, hard. "You need to conserve strength whenever possible. Conjuring pits of lava from thin air is all well and good, but banishing a pebble through someone's eye is considerably more cost effective. And now I'm getting ahead of myself. Here I am, talking about spell usage, when the fight," Quirrell placed a finger against his temple, "the real fight, starts right here. Proper assessment of your surroundings and situation is critical. What's the point of being Merlin's gift to magic when you can't notice an ambush or trap?"
"Oh, but Professor!" exclaimed Quirrell in a high, first-yearish voice, "That never happens to anybody!"
Quirrell snorted with derision. "The war was before your time, so I'll excuse your naivete. Allow me to assure in no uncertain terms: It happens."
For a split-second, Harry had the impression of gates slamming shut behind Quirrell's eyes. With a stab, he was suddenly and inexplicably reminded of Sherlock Holmes. Then he blinked, and the gates were gone.
"Be that as it may," said Quirrell, "The majority of you will likely go through life without needing the knowledge you learn in this class. But for those of you who are not comforted by statistics, an after-school extracurricular class is being offered. Sign-up sheets are posted in the Great Hall, and you'll be pleased to know they are exclusively for first-year students."
Quirrell raised a hand to quell the excited chatter. "Before you all stampede to sign up, please be aware of the course load. The extra classes and assignments will be stressful, time-consuming, and take up some of your precious weekend. Serious inquiries only."
-oOo-
To say Harry was shocked was an understatement. If asked what could possibly be done to make Hogwarts even more awesome, his answered would have been instant.
More Quirrell.
Apparently, not everyone agreed.
"Well, I'm kind of behind on my homework already, so..."
"What? You want to spend more time in a classroom?"
"Nah. Me and my mates have Quidditch after school."
"Um, you did hear him say it would cut into weekends, right?"
In the end, only a handful of first-years signed up for extracurricular defense classes. Hermione (who immediately decided to join) was aghast at her fellow classmates' lack of academic passion. Harry signed up before dinner, and was met by an altogether unexpected surprise. Hastily scrawled at the sign-up sheet's very top, with ink bone dry, was a familiar name.
Neville Longbottom.