When Holmes walked through the door at midnight, I had words of chastisement ready. He knew Harry would not sleep until he bid the boy goodnight. I was sure such late nights were having detrimental effects on the boy's health; lately, he seemed to be getting by on less and less sleep.

My reprimands died on seeing Holmes' countenance. Scarcely had I seen my friend so fatigued, or with such dark rings around his eyes. Every movement spoke of bone-deep weariness.

Holmes scraped his way to the kitchen and pulled open the door with a terrific effort. He clumsily reached in, all the way to the back, and pulled out a small corked vial. In a thrice he had pulled out the stopper and downed the contents.

The change that came upon him was extraordinary. No longer was a weary man standing before me. Faint smoke trailed from his ears, and Holmes looked as energetic as I've ever known. He discarded the empty bottle with a cry of delight, and strode back to the front door.

Before leaving, he turned to me. "Tell Harry to go to bed, I'll be late."

The door slammed, footsteps faded, and I stood in bewilderment. Shaking my head in confusion, I moved to the kitchen. On the counter top was the discarded bottle, and its label served only to deepen my confusion.

Written in Holmes' concise script were two words: "Pepper Up".

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

-oOo-

The sun shone, the morning air was crisp, and Voldemort was seething. He walked through the quaint country town of St. Brusqueby, disdainfully observing the surrounding muggles.

He watched them with poorly concealed distaste. They seemed to scurry around their filthy town like rats in a maze. So busy to lay yet another brick in the putrid house of their pointless little lives. The peons didn't even have the strength of character to walk with heads held high. Most shuffled along with their eyes glued to the ground.

Voldemort picked up the pace. The sooner he was through this horrible hamlet, the better.

So it was that the most powerful Dark Lord of his time peacefully strolled through a picturesque muggle village, wanting nothing more than to crucio everyone in sight. Only after he passed the town limits did Voldemort allow his face to show the full disgust bottled within. He vowed to return one day. On that day, he would burn St. Brusqueby to the ground.

Distracted by such soothing thoughts, Voldemort quickly left the village behind, and soon found himself before a forest edge; the final leg of his journey. He could feel ancient wards set along the forest's perimeter, intricate spells crackling with power. If a muggle came within one hundred yards of these woods, they would find themselves suddenly walking away to do things that desperately needing doing.

From the outside it appeared a forest like any other, but Voldemort was not deceived. He knew it concealed a veritable smorgasbord of deadly denizens, as well it should, with a name like the "Forbidden Forest". If he was successful in passing through, he'd emerge within sight of his goal: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Therein lay the challenge. Navigate the Forbidden Forest. Without magic.

The Dark Lord snarled at a whistling sparrow, startling the bird into flight. When he died in Godric's Hollow, his horcrux-bound soul was scattered on the wind, a mere wraith drifting through the world. In that incomplete form, he carefully constructed his plan for return. In that simple form, his plan seemed so easy and clever. Plant himself in the mind of Sherlock Holmes and strike down the Boy Who Lived.

Only when bound to the host, with full faculties restored, were the scheme's flaws revealed. The most immediate being Harry Potter's absence. It never occurred to his wraith form that school terms were starting. Voldemort raged when he discovered the boy was already at Hogwarts. The spell binding him to Sherlock had been cast at far less than optimal power, and was not permanent. He needed to find the boy, and soon.

As he at the forest's edge, Voldemort felt a small twinge of unease. Walking through harmless hamlets was no problem, but traversing the Forbidden Forest without his magic posed significant challenges, to say the least.

Voldemort took a calming breath, crouch down, and plunged into the tangled tree line. Like a ghost, he slunk from shadow to shadow, slipping ever deeper into the Forbidden Forest.

-oOo-

"Feeling all right there, Neville?"

Harry, Hermione, and a green-faced boy were on their way to Hogwarts' first extracurricular Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Or as the sign-up sheet read, "Intensive Situational Training".

Neville looked as though last night's sleep had come slowly. "I'm fine," he croaked.

Hermione trailed slightly behind, her nose buried in the first year Standard Book of Spells. The turning pages sounded like a papery machine gun.

They reached the Defense classroom's oaken entrance in no time. Harry grasped the handle.

"Ready?" he asked.

Hermione and Neville nodded. Harry cracked the door open and peeked inside. He stared for a moment before withdrawing. He closed the door very softly, stepped back, and looked at the brass room label.

"What's wrong?" asked Hermione.

Neville twitched nervously. "Something bad?"

Harry shook his head. "It's...you have to see it. Come on."

Harry gave another head shake and led them into the Defense classroom. Hermione and Neville stopped halfway inside and gawked. They were not in the familiar defense classroom. They'd entered a comfortably furnished dining room. The Defense Professor was pouring himself a cup of tea at the far side of a banquet table littered with cups and pots.

Quirrell glanced up and set the kettle down. "Please, shut the door."

Hermione did so, and the three students stood uncertainly, looking around the large room with undisguised curiosity.

"Have a seat," said Quirrell, "And feel free to help yourselves while we wait." He gestured to the many teapots and condiments scattered down the table length.

The three sat, and each grabbed a cup and pot.

Harry savored the smell of his choice, freshly brewed Earl Gray. The bergamot infused beverage was a surprisingly kind gesture. Harry paused, the cup inches from his lips. It was a very kind gesture, especially coming from the pragmatic professor.

Suspiciously kind.

Harry suspected Sherlock's tests had left a paranoid streak wider than previously thought. Wouldn't Watson laugh, watching him turn down a perfectly good cup of tea?

Still...no harm in checking.

Harry raised the cup to lips and pretended to take a sip, all the while watching Quirrell from the corner of his eye. The professor continued to quietly down his own drink, seemingly oblivious to the attention. Harry was about to chastise himself for excess suspicion when it happened. In between sips, Quirrell glanced at the assembled students. It was a look so brief and subtle that one would miss it by blinking.

Warning bells went off in Harry's head. Thoughts fired at top speed.

Quirrell was watching them, but did not want to be caught doing so. If the professor was engaged in covert surveillance, he was expecting something to happen. The only reasonable action expected would be (as the professor had prompted) for the students to drink the available tea. Ergo, for some unknown reason, Quirrell was observing whether or not they consumed the drinks.

"That," thought Harry, chastising his brain, "Is the most ridiculous line of reasoning I've ever heard." Even so, he put down his cup with tea untouched.

Minutes passed and more students trickled into the Defense Room. All of them were pleasantly surprised with the complimentary beverages.

Finally, the last student arrived, a pale girl with unfocused eyes, as if she was watching something far away. The girl glided in, taken the closest available seat, and helped herself to a sugar cube.

With all students finally present, Quirrell stood. "Welcome to Intensive Situational Training. First order of business. You all fail."

Confused murmurs broke out and the professor held up a hand. "How did you all like the tea? Ms. Granger?" he pointed to Hermione.

"Fine, I guess?"

"Was it poisoned?"

A nervous ripple went through the students, and some pushed away their cups. "Since it's your first time," said Quirrell, "I refrained from drugging the drinks with sleeping drought, a mercy I'll not repeat. Inside this classroom you'll be tested at every moment, in every way. Act accordingly."

"Now", Quirrell clapped his hands together, "On to the main event. As you've noticed, I've taken the liberty of making some minor modifications to the classroom. That door," he waved at a green door to his left, "leads to the rest of the house. Within that house we'll be playing a little game. Here's how it works: Inside three rooms are three 'treasures'. Your objective is to retrieve these treasure and return to the kitchen. My objective is to stop you. Questions?"

Hermione spoke up. "What do mean, 'treasures'?"

Quirrell smiled. "You'll know them when you see them."

"...Alright. Are we going one at time?"

Quirrell shrugged. "All up to you. One at a time, all together, split up, teams. Whatever you think is best. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Going to the green door, Quirrell entered the house proper. He left behind a kitchen of nervous first years.

"So," said Hermione, "Any plans?"

"Yeah," said a brown-haired kid, "The plan's to get a sphere before they're gone."

Hermione didn't approve of snap judgments, but the kid was pushing it. "We'll have a better chance," she said frostily, "If we stick together."

The kid rolled his eyes and walked to the green door. "Yeah, that'll work. A big bunch of kids are just gonna sneak right past him. Good luck with that." The kid cracked open the door and sneaked inside, silently closing the door behind.

Hermione glowered at the green door before speaking again. "Well, any other plans?" No answer came forth, she tried again. "Okay...how about this?" She rummaged in her bag and brought out a quill and parchment. "Who knows any spells that might be useful?"

That question received a more vigorous response. By the time suggestions petered out, Hermione had a more varied list than she'd hoped for. To be sure, not a great list, but better than she expected from a random smattering of first years. The only one who didn't volunteer information was, strangely, Harry Potter.

"Okay, here's what we have," said Hermione, listing a slew of standard first year incantations. Most prominent were children's dueling spells like the Jelly Legs Jinx and tickling charms. Such incantations weren't dangerous, but they could certainly be distracting. For navigation, the Point Me spell could be used as a compass, while generic magic like Lumos rounded out the selection. Hermione's donation was a particularly good one, the lock-opening spell Alohomora.

Hermione briefly studied her, and nodded. "Here's what I was thinking. First, we need to divide into groups. We're just first years. Even all together, Professor Quirrell could still beat us. If we go in groups of two, we'll have a better chance to get some treasure out."

"How do we pick groups?" asked Neville.

"Unless you had someone in particular, I thought we should group up to cover each others weak points." Hermione peered at the list again. "It looks like the best pairs would be Susan Bones with Hannah Abbott, Me with Luna, and Harry with Neville. Is that okay?"

The potential partners glanced at each other, and nodded.

Hermione stood determinedly. "Then let's go."