Writing this chapter this quickly was a fluke. I do try to keep from having horribly long breaks between updates, but this story will be sporadic at best.

Enjoy!

CHAPTER 2

Sherlock looked around the tower in unbridled horror. This was supposed to be his classroom? Heaven only know what his quarters would look like. Thoroughly irritated, he pushed back his dark curls and surveyed the mess. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him and a grin spread across his face. Striding carefully over to the fireplace, he took some floo powder from the mantle, threw it in, and calmly stated, "Mycroft Holmes' office, Ministry of Magic." Satisfied, he began to toss things into the green flames. In a matter of minutes, nearly everything but the furniture was gone.

It had taken four days and had been incredibly boring, but he had finally gotten his classroom, office, and personal quarters set up in a way that didn't make him too horribly uncomfortable. The classroom was organized with rows of individual desks in the front facing his desk and a large whiteboard, just in front of the stairs to his quarters. In the other half of the room were tables with four chairs each and a large square of connected desks which created an enclosed area where things could be set up for observation. It was a clean and organized space, designed for learning. Gone were the cushions and lamps and incense burners which could only serve to put a student to sleep.

His office, which was just off of the corridor below the classroom, was set up with a desk and a work table, an enormous pin board, a couch and chairs, and a set of cupboards with a built in stasis charm which would keep the more delicate experiments and ingredients fresh and stable. His quarters were a mess. There was simply too much space in the top floor of the tower. His bedroom could fit the entirety of most of his old flats and the bathroom was the size of a public toilet. The large kitchen and extensive balcony area, though, was very useful.

The biggest downside of the whole set up, albeit not entirely surprising, was that after Mycroft had finished emptying his office, he'd installed a portrait which connected to Sherlock's. And Sherlock couldn't get rid of the thing. It chattered constantly whenever he entered the room and reported on all of his activities as soon as he left.

He settled in quickly, though, and stayed in his little section of the castle almost exclusively. It was August the 29th before he'd met any of the other staff.

It was nearly nine o'clock. The sun was nearly set with just a few rays of dark red coloring the landscape. Sherlock sat in his office, staring across the room at the large window behind the desk. He was lounging in his armchair, a syringe discarded off to one side. When a large barn owl flew to the window and perched on the sill, Sherlock didn't even notice. When it started tapping the glass, though, he groaned and closed his eyes. It continued and he shot it an intimidating stare, but it didn't cease. Standing suddenly, he yelled at it, "I'm thinking!" He collapsed back into the chair and tried to return his focus to the experiment he'd just finished. The bird only ruffled its feathers and tapped louder.

Growling with frustration, Sherlock threw himself from the chair and flung open the window. Hooting indignantly, the owl swooped into the room and landed gracefully on the coffee table. Sherlock slammed the window closed and went back to his chair, pausing only long enough to relieve the animal of its note. It hooted angrily at the closed window before forcing its way out through the partially open door.

Dropping the scrap of parchment onto the floor, he closed his eyes and entered his mind palace.

When he awoke in the early morning, Sherlock saw only the expanse of fading stars in the pre-dawn. He had a pounding headache. Reaching into his robes, he pulled out a cigarette and a lighter and he breathed in the smoke gratefully. He quickly climbed the ladder and then the stairs to his quarters, then relieved himself in his irritatingly large loo. He finished the cigarette before smashing it in an ashtray and then took a shower. Once dressed, he made himself a mug of coffee and descended once more to check on his newest potion experiment.

He spied the parchment on the ground and picked it up.

Professor Holmes,

I do hope you're settling in nicely. There is a mandatory staff meeting at 9 o'clock tomorrow morning, directly after breakfast. Please do join us.

Albus Dumbledore

Sherlock grumbled at the note. Why say 'please' if it's mandatory? He threw it back to the floor and then continued over to his potion. He still had another few hours.

When it approached eight thirty, Sherlock brushed his curls out of his face, thinking idly of a haircut, and began to store his things so they would be relatively safe until he returned. Stuffing his stockinged feet into previously discarded shoes, he closed and locked his office door behind him and began to navigate his way down to the main floor of the castle. It was nine twenty two when he pushed open the doors of the Great Hall.

A group of sixteen individuals surrounded a table in the center of the enormous room. He began observing and deducing quite quickly. A group of fairly ordinary school teachers with various home lives and a few with no outside connections. There was one half-giant, one ghost, and one partial goblin. Dumbledore met his gaze and smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "Ah, Professor Holmes, so good of you to join us. I can only assume that you lost your way. The castle is quite confusing." Sherlock didn't even bother nodding and returned his attention to the other staff members. They had been staring, but with the revelation of his identity, they broke out in scattered conversation, gossip and speculation mostly. His eyes lingered over a man with long scraggly brown hair and a fierce glare who had a cat entwined about his ankles. He smiled slightly, keeping his thoughts to himself for ones. This could be long term and it would do no good to alienate everyone immediately. It would be much less boring to drag it out a bit.

Dumbledore began to make introductions and he listened as he lowered himself into a seat, pulling out another cigarette. He looked over each one more carefully when their names were said, the piercing, ever-changing eyes roaming over them and searching for useful information.

"Bathsheba Babbling, Ancient Runes," a tall woman with glasses and plaited blonde hair greeted his look. Husband in the farming business. Interesting, but generally irrelevant. Two young children.

"Cuthbert Binns, History of Magic," the shriveled old ghost didn't look up. There was nothing of interest about him. He'd been dead for years. He wasn't even able to properly process new information anymore.

"Charity Burbage, Muggle Studies," a young woman—maybe early twenties. Has a girlfriend. Very interesting.

"Filius Flitwick, Charms," dull. Part goblin, no wife or other family. Almost definitely has banking connections, though. Worth looking into.

"Jaecob Kettleborn, Care of Magical Creatures," an oldish man, closing in on fifty, with wispy hair of an undefined shade. He seems very aware of his surroundings. Obviously not enough so, though. He's missing part of his left leg and most of an ear.

"Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration," a tall, severe-looking woman with black hair and square glasses. Husband, no children, something a bit…off. Further inspection will be in order later.

"Aurora Sinistra, Astronomy," her blue eyes stood out quite a bit. No outside connections. Has a pet cat.

"Horace Slughorn, Potions," short, fat, and balding. Enjoys life's comforts. He's looking almost longingly at the cigarette. That could be useful. Sherlock blew out a perfect smoke ring and resisted the urge to grin at the teachers' reactions which ranged from disgusted to jealous.

"Pomona Sprout, Herbology," flyaway, greying strawberry blonde hair. Dirt under the fingernails. Either not good at cleaning spells or simply doesn't care. Husband and at least one child, probably grown.

"Septima Vector, Arithmancy," could be someone worth getting to know. Probably not anywhere near my level, but could be a sounding board. Maybe. Steady boyfriend. Good. If I do talk to her, she'll be less likely to mistake it as interest.

"Argus Filch, caretaker," Ah, the scraggly one. He'll be cleaning up the messes. Good to know. No wonder he looks so bitter. And he's a squib, too.

"Nathaniel Newman, Defense Against the Dark Arts," strong mental and emotional shields-what are those for?—several siblings, currently living with one of them plus a dog.

"Rolanda Hooch, Flying instructor," lives off-campus. Athletic, but calculating. Husband, no children.

"Irma Pince, librarian," Definitely interested in Filch. Disgusting, but could be useful. Damn it, I sound like my brother. I'm not purposely angering people because they could be useful.

"Poppy Pomfrey, medi-witch," good at healing, then. She may pose a problem if she tries to interfere in my personal affairs. I'll have to avoid her.

"and Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of the keys and grounds," the half-giant puffed out his chest proudly. Not very intelligent but fiercely loyal. Obviously not of acquaintance with any kind of comb or hair brush.

Most of the staff eyed Sherlock suspiciously as Dumbledore introduced him. "And this is Professor Sherlock Holmes. He's kindly agreed to teach Divination." Again, Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, preferring to focus on the smoke he was inhaling.

"And what are your qualifications, Professor Holmes?" asked Septima Vector.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked directly at her. "Masters in Potions, Arithmancy, and Divination. I assure you, I am quite qualified." He leaned back in his chair, only to be confronted with more questions.

"Potions, you say? Well, my boy, maybe you would like to join me some time—"

"Arithmancy? How can you possibly study Divination and Arithmancy?"

Sherlock gave them all a solid stare until they stopped talking. Dumbledore broke the resulting silence. "Yes, well, let's get on with things, shall we? Would anyone like more tea?"

Sherlock carefully refrained from yelling out "BORED!" during the meeting. He was, though. Truly, terribly bored. They were discussing rules, and time tables and lesson plans and eventually individual students. He wasn't interested in any of it. Occasionally, he was asked for input, but a raised eyebrow made most of them leave him alone.

At twelve thirty, food was prepared by the house elves. He didn't eat, preferring to keep his mind clear for his projects later that afternoon. Pomfrey eyed his thin, nearly skeletal frame with quiet determination, worry, and disapproval. As he thought, she was going to be a problem.

It was after two when he was finally able to return to his tower. He bounded up the stairs and into his office, refusing to stay and 'socialize.' Unfortunately, one of them followed him. He was staring through a microscope at a reaction between powdered horned slug and a drop of Veritiserum when she knocked smartly on the door. He didn't look up. "Come."

Professor McGonagall opened the door and stepped through, her nose crinkling at the mess he'd already made of the area. She smiled knowingly at the papers strewn across various surfaces, but frowned when she spied the simmering cauldron, the various ingredients, the muggle chemicals and equipment, the vials of blood, and the discarded syringe. After several long moments, Sherlock straightened and marked something down on the notebook next to him. "Well?" he asked.

She cleared her throat awkwardly and began, "Professor Holmes, I make no secret of my feelings toward Divination."

"Oh, for the love of Merlin, get on with it, will you? Say what you want to say and get out."

She cleared her throat once more, obviously flustered by Sherlock's interruption. With a deep breath, she continued. "I plan to give you a chance, as both a teacher and a person, but ultimately, if you don't do a good job, I will take action."

"Ah, yes," he leaned back against the table and looked at her. "The deputy. Quite. I can assure you, Professor, that I'm quite capable of doing my job. If that is all—"

"No, that is not all." He raised an eyebrow slightly. "I need to know what you plan on teaching your students." He stared at her for several seconds, evaluating her intentions and deciding what to tell her.

"I will teach the approved curriculum. If a student—any student—shows any kind of ability or desire to learn, then I will endeavor to teach them something that could actually be useful. I will not waste my time on those who do not desire it." And with that, he turned back to what he was doing and marked down several more observations in the makeshift chart.

McGonagall gaped for a bit before she recovered the ability to speak. "I… that's… do you mean to say that you will teach the students individually?"

"Only the intelligent ones. Based on the course material, it's quite obvious that most students will simply be taking this class so they don't have to do any real work. The assignments are pointless, the lessons are useless, and every technique is flawed. They certainly aren't getting anything out of it."

Again, McGonagall was at a loss for words. "I… oh my… yes... uh... Professor Holmes, if there is any Gryffindor who is taking your class and not taking the work seriously, I would like to know about it." Sherlock looked up. She was serious. Carefully, he nodded, never taking his eyes off her.

"I won't differentiate between houses. After the first classes, I can give you a list of everyone who's in there to fill a slot in their timetables rather than to learn." He looked down again, added something to the mixture, and then looked up once more. "I'd like you to know, that though I couldn't care less about those who choose to do nothing with their time, I will not tolerate extreme idiocy or trouble-making in my classroom. Those individuals will have to find a different subject." He looked back down.

McGonagall nodded. "Yes, of course, I…I would expect nothing else." She left the office very confused. He had a mastery in divination, but said the course material is useless? He might actually be competent. And maybe divination wasn't quite the waste she'd been led to believe. Not if there was something better than what was shown in the course.

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Thanks for reading!

-MP