John felt as though he was in a kind of trance the rest of the day, thinking about that boy who seemed to have come and gone from his life in a flash. He had only seen him once or twice over the years, but for some curious reason he now felt drawn to him when before he was just another face in a sea of magic.

Which was, if not anything else, completely strange. Sherlock was blunt, conceited, and frankly just plain rude. But he was also interesting, mysterious, and alluring. John immediately wanted to know more about him, and after Sherlock had slipped away behind the tapestry, spent the rest of the afternoon asking fellow Gryffindors and even a few Ravenclaws about the Holmes boy. Always the same question: "what can you tell me about Sherlock Holmes?"

The answers never varied too much, either.

"He's a bit weird."

"He doesn't really have any friends-no surprise there."

"He's super intelligent and talented-then again, he is in Ravenclaw, after all."

"He can know the majority of your life story by just glancing at you."

"He's a git."

Assessing the garnered facts, it wasn't at all too difficult to piece it together: Sherlock, while respected by his classmates, was far from endeared to them.

While practicing Summoning and Banishing charms for Flitwick in the common room that night, John began wondering when he would see that boy with the tousled dark hair again.

Sherlock didn't see John Watson again until Wednesday, just after lunch, when he walked into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom for the first time that week. In two classes with the Gryffindors? That was an anomaly, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. Wait a minute-yes he was. Gryffindors were gits.

His eyes wandered to the front of the room, curious to see who their professor would be this year. It was long since decided that the position was jinxed, as no teacher had stayed longer than a year for some time now. Most just left for one reason or another, but there had been a few freak accidents-one professor had lost a hand in some "dueling" incident, and although it was mended in a few hours, the shock was enough to drive him away. Rumor had it that a few years back, a young female professor had suddenly and under mysterious circumstances sprouted a second head.

However, there seemed to be people desperate (or stupid) enough to risk it, because Dumbledore had always managed to find them a teacher.

The glass gradually filtered in around him, and out of the corner of his eye Sherlock saw John take a seat at the other end of the room, next to a few rambunctious Gryffindor boys. John looked up and caught his eye, stiffening in surprise like a mouse that was confronted with a particularly vicious cat. Sherlock assumed that by now he had heard enough about him to keep his distance-all for the better, too. Sherlock had no need nor desire for friends.

He had gotten through the majority of his life without them, and planned to continue doing so. Alone protected him, as far as he was concerned. The closest he would ever need to come to having friends would be establishing polite relationships with people of power and rank, people who would benefit him in the long room. Or so he told himself.

The entire class had been there for about a quarter of an hour, and some hopefuls were muttering about the possibility of leaving if the teacher didn't show up soon, when the double doors slammed open and a well-dressed, middle-aged man strode to the front of the room without casting a sideways glance. His silver robes billowed behind him impressively as he adjusted the frilly collar of his shirt.

"Books away," he ordered, turning to face them. The class immediately fell silent. They could sense that this was not a man that they could pull one over on. He demanded their respect and attention (mostly just their attention), and he got it. "I am Professor Nevamann, and I expect you lot to address me as such. Since I haven't the slightest clue what any of you are capable of, I'll be having you divide into pairs and practice dueling to get a better judgment of each individual's ability.

"Now, this isn't just any normal practice. There will only be three duels going on at a time, due to the restricted space, so the rest will observe. No talking, or fidgeting-if you can pay attention for the forty-five remaining minutes, you might very well learn something.

"So here's the way this is going to work-after a match is completed, the loser will go to one side of the room, and the winner to the other. Once everyone has gone, I will re-pair the winners, and we will keep going until we have the top two facing each other. Now, there's an incentive-the grand winner will earn his or her house fifty points, and will receive a one hundred on the first exam of the term."

Sherlock sat up straighter at that. He couldn't care less about pointless competition between houses. But an automatic one hundred? That would be a perfect way to keep his grade up, and he could spend the class doing something far more practical. In fact, he probably wouldn't have to attend that day at all.

Everyone else shared Sherlock's interest-there was a ripple of excited murmuring that echoed around the room, before everyone fell silent again, eager to get started.

Professor Nevamann ordered them to the very back of the room, and with a very dramatic sweep of his wand, sent the desks flying to the front of the class, where they stacked neatly on top of each other.

Before long, they were watching their classmates duel one another, jinxes and hexes flying and rebounding everywhere, so they constantly had to stay alert and duck if necessary. Those who knew how cast a shield charm in their vicinity, for extra protection.

Most of the students were fairly good-there were many close matches. But there was also plenty of shabby spell work incorrect wand movements, flawed pronunciations, and the like. Amateurs, Sherlock thought. If they actually practiced over the holiday they would have no trouble at all with this.

Sherlock entered his first match with confidence, against a burly Gryffindor called Justin Quealy whom he was pretty sure was on the Quidditch team. He seemed intimidating when it came to size, but didn't look particularly intelligent. Sherlock suspected he was keeper, as he could easily block the hoops by moving a few inches from side to side.

"Stupefy!" Quealy said, much too loudly and with plenty of unnecessary flourishing that left his defenses wide open.

Sherlock deflected it with a lazy flick of his wrist, and quickly sent a disarming jinx back at him, which knocked Quealy's wand from his hand. He caught it deftly in his free hand and finished off his opponent with a petrifying jinx, completing his first duel in a matter of seconds.

Professor Nevamann, showing more than a scrap of interest for the first time so far, looked mildly impressed. "You can cast nonverbal spells, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock suspected he had studied the student profiles before class to ensure he knew everyone's names. In fact, from this distance, if he looked closely, he could see a stack of papers on his desk, the top of which depicting a face with an extreme likeness to his own.

"Yes, sir," Sherlock responded. Nonverbal spells happened to be many of the things that he had taught himself to do over the summer.

Nevamann gave him a swift smile and nodded in approval.

Ten minutes later, only John and another boy had to go, so the entire class was focused on their match. Sherlock was surprised-after witnessing the boy's dismal performance in Potions he didn't have high expectations for him in any other class. But he was considerably skilled at dueling, and won after only a few minutes, without getting hit by a single spell.

"Now," began Professor Nevamann. "Those who won, remember who you are-we will continue this tournament next class. Those of you who did not, don't be discouraged-practice in your free time. Mediocre spell work can cost you your life with the kind of mad wizards that are out and about these days."

He waved his wand again, and the desks flew back to their original spots. Sherlock swung his bag over his shoulder, and departed with the rest of the class, too lazy to speed ahead. He fell into step beside John somehow; they didn't exchange a word, but walked side-by-side all the way out onto the grounds, where John headed to Care of Magical Creatures, and Sherlock down to the lake to practice the aquatic spells they had just begun in Charms.

Sherlock for once couldn't focus on his studying-his spells, while effective, were not at the level he felt they should be, and he just couldn't get the fluid arm movements quite right. It seemed that everything he did was too sharp and precise, which was the opposite of what was needed. So he leaned against an oak tree and watched as John's class headed into the Forbidden Forest and out of sight. Feeling strangely empty, he simply closed his eyes and took in the September sun's warmth, ignoring the prickle of unease that crept up his spine when he pictured the newest Professor's gallant self, and his unshakable confidence. There was nothing to dislike about the man, and yet…Sherlock couldn't find much of anything to like about him either.