A Study in Magic
by Books of Change

Warning/Notes: This is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline has been shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender has changed for the sake of the plot. The story was planned and written before season 2 (but incorporating elements of thereof as much as possible). Readers beware!

Chapter Twenty One: Teaching Lessons

John texted as promised the next morning. Harry read the texts as he dressed himself one-handed. John had made it to Prague without any hiccups and Sherlock was already doing horrible things to the skeletons the Czech police had unearthed. John predicted they'd return in a couple of weeks, as the case proved to be rather difficult due to length the bodies had been interred.

Anything you want from Prague? John asked.

I don't know what Prague has, Harry texted back.

Then will find something funny and useless, replied John, which made Harry grin.

Professor McGonagall handed out their course schedules at the Great Hall over breakfast. Harry noted Gryffindor had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first. That reminded him of something—or rather, someone.

"Do you know which house Julia got sorted into?" Harry asked. He knew where Ginny sorted to—Gryffindor, just like her brothers.

"Who?" Neville said, looking blank. This didn't surprised Harry much as Neville had the worst memory of anyone he'd ever met.

"Julia Lestrade," Harry clarified. The blank look on Neville persisted. Hermione, who had Voyages with Vampires propped up against a milk jug, answered for him.

"She got sorted to Hufflepuff. See, she's over there."

Harry scanned the Hufflepuff table and sure enough there was Julia, sipping on a glass of pumpkin juice, studying the breakfast food selection and looking glum. Harry vaguely remembered John telling him Julia was a vegetarian who eschewed wheat. Harry scanned the Gryffindor table and noted the tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast, pots of jam and butter, and platters of bacon, sausages, and eggs. He never realized how heavy on meat and poultry their breakfasts were, and wondered if Julia would end up having to survive on fruit alone. Then Harry caught the sight of Ron and Seamus chomping on pork sausages and he completely lost his appetite.

Harry, Ron and Hermione left the castle together after breakfast. They passed the vegetable patch and arrived at the greenhouses. Their classmates were already there waiting for Professor Sprout. Harry, Ron and Hermione had just joined them when she came striding away from an innocent-looking willow tree planted in the middle of the grounds, which Harry knew for a fact wasn't innocent—he once tried to take a break there last year after a long walk and one of its thick branches almost took his head off— accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart.

Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair. As usual, she had large amounts of earth on her clothes and her fingernails were dark from constantly handling soil. Lockhart, on the other hand, was immaculate in sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining under a perfectly-positioned gold-trimmed turquoise hat.

"Oh, hello there!" he called, beaming at the assembled students. "I was just telling Professor Sprout the fascinating characteristics of a Whomping Willow. But I don't want you running away with the idea I'm better at Herbology than she is! I just happened to have met several exotic plants on my travels…"

"Greenhouse three today, chaps!" said Professor Sprout, who was looking deeply disgruntled, and not her usual cheerful self.

There was a murmur of interest. They've only worked in greenhouse one so far, and greenhouse three housed the more interesting and dangerous plants. Professor Sprout took out a large key from her belt and unlocked the door. They were immediately greeted with hot air, and the smell of damp earth and lush vegetation. Lockhart opened his mouth to say something, but Professor Sprout closed the door firmly at his face after ushering her students in. She led them to a trestle bench in the centre of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different-coloured ear muffs were lying on the bench.

"Today we will be repotting Mandrakes," said Professor Sprout. "Who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?"

To no one's surprise, Hermione's hand shot up.

"Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative," said Hermione, sounding like she swallowed the textbook (the Sherlock-voice in Harry's head said: plant genus Mandragora, of the nightshades family). "It is used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state."

"Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor," said Professor Sprout. "The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes." (The Sherlock-voice in Harry's head said they also had delirium-inducing hallucinogenic alkaloids.) "It is also, however, dangerous. Can someone tell me why?"

Hermione's hand shot up again.

"The cry of a Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it," said Hermione promptly. (Again, the Sherlock-voice in Harry's head drawled: also all parts of the mandrake plant are poisonous).

"Exactly. Take another ten points," said Professor Sprout. "Now the Mandrakes here are very young."

She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and everyone shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in colour, were growing there in rows. They looked quite unremarkable.

"Everyone take a pair of earmuffs," said Professor Sprout.

Everyone scrambled to seize a pair that wasn't pink and fluffy. Harry snagged a moss-green one.

"When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered," said Professor Sprout. "When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right—earmuffs on."

Harry snapped the earmuffs over his ears. They shut out sound completely. Professor Sprout put the remaining pink and fluffy pair over her ears, rolled up her robe sleeves, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly and pulled hard.

Instead of roots, a tiny, muddy and extremely ugly baby popped out. The leaves were growing right out of its head. It had pale green, mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of it lungs. Professor Sprout took a large clay plot from under the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying it in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her hands, gave them the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs.

"As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won't kill yet," she said calmly as though she'd done nothing more exciting than water some basil. "However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I'm sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up. Four to a tray—the pots are here—compost in the sacks over there—and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it's teething."

She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her shoulder.

Justin Finch-Fletchley joined Harry, Ron and Hermione at the tray they occupied.

"Thank you for inviting me over to your birthday party," said Justin brightly as they filled their pots with dragon-dung compost. "It was lots of fun, and it was nice to have people you can talk about magic to freely." (Hermione nodded in agreement). "Did you get to read Lockhart's books? He's really something, isn't he? Awfully brave chap. I'd died of fear if I'd been cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but he stayed cool and—zap—just fantastic."

Harry nodded noncommittally, but didn't say what he was really thinking. Sherlock said the frequent mention of telephone booths in Finland where this werewolf incident supposedly took place was suspicious, because Finland stopped offering public telephone services years ago due to the prevalence of mobile phones. Lockhart would have been at Hogwarts when telephone booths were still at large in Finland; another point against Lockhart's credibility beside his lack of tan.

"I made mother read his books and I think she's starting to see how useful it'll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family," Justin went on. "My name was down for Eton, you know, and I can't tell you how glad I am I came here instead. Mother was always a bit disappointed about that."

After this they didn't have much chance to talk as they had their earmuffs on and had to concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout had made it look easy, but it wasn't. The Mandrakes didn't like coming out of the earth, but didn't seem to like going back into it either. They squirmed, kicked, failed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth. Perhaps it was because he knew Sherlock was nosing through a mass grave, but Harry had several morbid thoughts on Mandrakes as he repotted them. If the cry didn't kill you, pulling out an innocent-looking plant and finding a tiny, ugly, green-skinned baby where the roots should be could cause fatal heart-failure to an unsuspecting person. There was also the harvesting of Mandrakes—would it look killing a miniature person? Harry shuddered at his own thoughts.

By the end of class, Harry was sweaty, aching and covered in earth like everyone else. They rushed back to the castle for a quick wash and the Gryffindors headed to Transfigurations.

Professor McGonagall's classes were always difficult, but Harry figured out how to turn his beetle into a button in the end. It's about associations, he remembered Sherlock saying, don't think about the results only, think about how the names are similar or how the two objects look similar—then visualize the change. Harry looked around after turning his beetle into a very plain, very non-descript black button with two holes. Hermione was concentrating hard on her own beetle, which was rapidly turning into a shiny black coat button, Ron was stabbing his wand on his desk, Seamus was giving his beetle a lot of exercise as it scuttled around in circles to avoid his wand, Dean was pressing his wand tip on the back of his beetle, and Neville somehow engulfed his desk with grey smoke and appeared to have no clue as to how he did this. Professor McGonagall gave Harry a nod of approval when she checked his work, and suggested he try transfiguring more beetles into different kinds of buttons. Harry amused himself turning beetles into the most outrageously shaped buttons he could imagine. He and Hermione shared a laugh at the end of class over the button he made to look like a demented version of Browser Koopa.

Ron, on the other hand, was having problems.

"Stupid—useless—thing—" he growled, whacking his battered wand against his desk furiously.

"What's wrong?"

"The tip fell off," Ron said angrily as he raised his wand, which let out a volley of small bangs like a firecracker from its cracked end, "See, the unicorn hair is hanging out."

"Write home for another one," Harry suggested, thinking beating up an already battered wand wasn't helping things.

"Yeah, like Mum and Dad could afford one so soon after start of term," Ron grumbled, stuffing his hissing wand back into his bag.

Harry said nothing. He felt a bit awkward. He didn't have to worry about money because his witch mother and wizard father left him a vault in Gringotts containing a small fortune in wizard gold, and John and Sherlock had a steady stream of income independent of paying work. Harry learned about the latter this past summer when he told John he could pay for his school things from now on. Sherlock deduced Harry only said so because he hadn't been working on cases for many weeks, thus was concerned about his and John's (relatively) meagre finances.

"We have passive income," said Sherlock as he opened a newspaper.

"What's passive income?" asked Harry. He'd never heard of such a thing.

"Anything from pension, interest, royalties, and rent," said Sherlock. "You know what interest is, don't you?"

Harry nodded. He learned about banks in primary school.

"John has an Army pension," explained Sherlock. "We also have investments. You don't know what stocks are? I didn't think so. A share of stock represents a slice of ownership over a publicly-traded company. The share could mean an ownership of one out of million, one tenth of a million, or one out of a billion; it depends on the company's size the how small the company decides to fracture itself to."

Harry pictured a building slicing itself to thousands of little squares and someone buying a square.

"Some company stock offer dividends," Sherlock went on. "The company literally pays you for owning a share of their stock. AT&T for example has historically paid dividends around 20 to 25 pence per share every quarter."

That didn't sound much, Harry thought. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, like he knew what Harry was thinking, which, knowing Sherlock, he probably did.

"Supposed you buy a hundred shares of stock, and the dividend is set to 30 pence per share; how much can you expect to make from dividends alone?" asked Sherlock.

"30 pounds a quarter or 120 pounds a year," Harry answered.

"Correct. Now what if you bought a thousand shares?"

"300 pounds a quarter or 1200 pounds a year," said Harry. Suddenly, he understood what Sherlock was driving at, "So the more shares you have, the more money you make in return!"

"Exactly," said Sherlock. "Now instead of spending the dividends, what if you reinvested them to buy more stock?"

"You have more shares, therefore more dividends!" said Harry excitedly, imagining an exponentially growing tree.

Sherlock smirked. "That is the essence of dividend investing: you don't care so much about stock prices as you are interested in the dividend payout. Also, if you reinvest your dividends, you experience something very akin to the magic of compounding interest. Let's return to our hundred shares example and set the stock price to £20 per share, 30 pence dividend per quarter. Unreasonably assuming no change in cost, same dividend payout, 100% reinvestment and no additional purchases, at the end of first quarter you'll have 101.5 shares, the £30 dividend purchasing 1.5 additional shares—yes, Harry, you can buy fractions of a share—and on the second quarter you'll have 103.022 shares. And so on and so forth. In ten years you'll have 179.08 shares paying you £1581.70 annually. This is around £380 more of what you would've made if you didn't reinvest—and you didn't have to do anything.

"But of course, this is too simplistic of a model. For one thing, we're overlooking one crucial factor: risk. All stocks carry risk. Can you tell me what it is?"

Harry thought about it. Among the things Uncle Vernon liked to complain about (and Uncle Vernon complained about many things), besides the people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry, was how the economy was tanking. He also complained how Grunnings, the drill company he was the director of, wasn't doing very well and how much work it was going to be to jump ship.

"A company can go under," said Harry slowly. "Go out of business."

"And when a company goes out of business, its stock loses all value," said Sherlock, nodding at Harry in approval. "This is not quite the case, but for purposes of this illustration: a pound is a pound is a pound. As long as you keep your pound as is, you are guaranteed to have a pound. But a company stock's price can change—if you use your pound to buy stock, it can become less than a pound, more than a pound or become zero. That is the inherent risk of all stock."

Harry nodded. Suddenly dividend investment didn't sound very exciting anymore. Sherlock smirked again.

"But not all companies are created equal. Some are hardier than others. Take Coca-Cola. Nestle. Visa. Master Card. Pepsi. Marks & Spenser. ITV. All those famous names even a child knows because they see them at the shops."

"How can you know this without ever doing the shopping?" asked John in exasperation.

Sherlock ignored that. "If you look through their history, you'll find these companies are financially stable and have consistent revenue growth. Their stock also tends to be expensive—meaning investors are willing to pay premium for their stock."

"So you could stick to big reliable companies," said Harry.

"Or buy venture company stock shares when they're still small and cheap," said John. "But that's bit of a gamble. There's no grantee the company you're investing in is the next Apple or Google."

"Or you can opt for index funds," said Sherlock. "When it comes down to it, very few people make money picking individual stocks. Even the best of them rarely beat average market returns. Many do significantly worse. An Index fund resolves this problem by letting you buy ownership of an entire market."

Both John and Harry stared at Sherlock. Buying ownership of an entire market? You could do that?

"When you buy an index fund, you're essentially buying small shares from hundreds of market-representing companies rather than larger shares of a selected few," Sherlock explained, "putting your eggs in a large grid instead of a handful of baskets, as it were. So even if you lose one slot, you still have several hundreds of other slots making up the slack. Your index fund will do as well as the market it represents, and usually includes companies that pay dividends. All of those companies will be paying you—as long as you have shares of the index fund."

"Is this why you bullied me into buying index funds with the award money I got for clobbering the Golem?" John asked.

"Yes," said Sherlock with a stern glare, "You have several virtues, John, but financial savvy is not one of them."

"Would've been nice if you explained this to me first," John grouched. "I suppose my lack of financial savvy is the reason why you're handling my portfolio?"

"Of course," said Sherlock, in an air of 'duh'. "You have nothing to complain about. The account is under your name and I haven't touched it beyond buying the indexes. If anything, you've made gains even in this market."

"Of course you did," John dead-panned, "Do you see me complaining? Now answer me this: how did you end up knowing so much about investments when you can't be arsed to remembering the solar system?"

"My father used real investments and money to teach us maths," said Sherlock haughtily. "Real-life problems are always more interesting than those ridiculous questions warbling about apples and oranges. And if you did well, there was a tangible reward at the end. Mycroft revelled in the facts and figures, and promptly ventured into value investing. I believe his ability to add to the treasury rather than merely spend it was vital in securing his role as the British Government. I, on the other hand, only wanted to make enough so I would never have to prostitute my time and wits for money."

"Neither poverty nor riches, yeah?" remarked John. "You know, your dad is really awesome. My dad never talked about money to me. Good thing our children both real and imaginary have you."

Sherlock raised the newspaper he holding above eye-level, thus covering his entire face. "Mmmn."

Later, Sherlock sat Harry down and showed him all of their account statements. Harry boggled at the amount Sherlock got for some paying cases, gaped at what John was making each month from just the blog, and marvelled at the actively growing fortune the two of them had amassed apart from pay. Then Sherlock made Harry calculate how much they'd spent the previous month using the receipts he'd nailed to the mantelpiece with a knife, how much they made from the account statements, and the amount left over if any, and told John to check his answers (but not help him). Harry had a hard time at it because it had been more than a year since he'd done serious maths and he was not allowed to use a calculator. But the exercise did much to put Harry's money worries to rest.

He couldn't share this with Ron, though. As fascinating as it was at the time, and as much as Harry wanted the Weasleys to stop being poor, the image of him retelling the whole episode to Ron just looked patronizing. So Harry kept his mouth shut as they went to the Great Hall for lunch. Ron's bad mood persisted. Hermione showing them the handful of perfectly transfigured coat buttons did nothing to improve it.

"What's after Lunch?" asked Harry, eager to change the subject.

"Defence Against the Dark Arts," said Hermione at once.

"Why," demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, "have you outlined all Lockhart's lessons in little hearts?"

Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing furiously.

They finished lunch and went outside to the overcast courtyard. Hermione sat down on a stone step and buried her nose in Voyages with Vampires again. Ron and Harry stood talking about Quidditch for a few minutes until Harry noticed a small figure had stumbled into the courtyard. Looking up, Harry realized the thick mane of dark brown hair tied up in a ponytail belonged to Julia Lestrade. She had a pinched expression on her face, like she hadn't eaten in a while, and she squinting around looking desperately lost.

"Hello," Harry called out.

Julia whipped her head around and squinted at Harry's direction. Eventually recognition dawned on her face.

"Harry," she sighed. "I'm lost." The last two words came out like a distressed wail.

"Where were you heading to?" asked Harry.

"The Hufflepuff common room," said Julia, rubbing her eyes and squinting again. "I went to the Great Hall, but there wasn't anything I can eat. So I was going to get the food I saved from breakfast."

"Lunch was heavy on the meat, wasn't it?" said Harry, remembering the shepherd's pie and ham sandwiches.

Julia drooped. She looked wrung out and exhausted. "Everything had meat in it."

"There were salads."

"I'm not a cow," Julia muttered darkly.

Ron snorted. "And I thought Harry's pork-phobia was bad."

Harry shot him a glare.

"You can request food from the Kitchens," said Harry. "The house-elves there make a mean Pad Thai and their lentil dishes are really good. They even mastered fancy Bibimbap last year. You know, the ones served it in the heated stone vessels."

Julia looked hopeful until she checked her watch. "But class starts in ten minutes…"

"Dinner then? I can talk to Blippy and he can send it up to the Hufflepuff table."

"Potter! Are you chatting up another girl?"

Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy's voice echoed around the courtyard. He stopped right behind Julia, flanked as he usually was at Hogwarts by his thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.

"So which number is she?" drawled Malfoy. "Was Weasley's sister not good enough for you?"

Crabbe and Goyle sniggered stupidly. Ron flushed purple.

"Eat slugs, Malfoy," he snarled.

"I don't hear you protesting," Malfoy said, smirking maliciously at Harry. "Was she really that bad? Not that it surprises me—oh." Julia had turned around to frown up at Malfoy, and the quality of malice in Malfoy's voice changed, "Good lord, you have nerve. You're actually chatting up to the grandmaster's granddaughter?"

Malfoy didn't shout the last bit out, but then he didn't have to: half of the courtyard was listening in, including a small, mousy-haired boy holding a Muggle camera. Harry had no idea what Malfoy meant by grandmaster or why he would call the sad faced, clean-shaven old man Harry met at the Leaky Cauldron that, but he didn't care.

"We're just talking," said Harry coldly, "having a civil conversation. I know it's a foreign language to you…"

"Is that what you're calling it?" Malfoy sneered. To Julia he said, "Hey, Shin. I wouldn't waste my time with him if I were you. Who wants to hang out with someone who thinks he's special because he has a scar on his face? I don't need someone to cut my face up and pretend to be sick all the time to feel special, thanks, don't you agree?"

Harry was about to retort, but Julia—hungry, exhausted, and patience clearly tried to the limit—gritted her teeth as if the last shreds of her civility were hanging there for dear life and faced Malfoy squarely.

"Excuse me," she snapped. "But who are you?"

The courtyard erupted with laughter. Even the knot of Slytherin fifth-years were chuckling like they couldn't help themselves. Shocked and humiliated, Malfoy skulked back into the castle. Crabbe and Goyle lumbered after him.

"I changed my mind," said Ron after he finished laughing, "She's not that bad. I think I like her."

Hermione shut Voyages with Vampires with a loud snap. There was an angry glint in her eye.

"Well, good for you," she snapped. "Let's go. Class starts in five minutes."

The four of them returned to the castle together. Harry felt bad for Julia, who missed two meals and didn't have time to pick up anything because her next class was Potions. Ron kept going on about Julia's comeback to Malfoy. Julia quickly dismissed it.

"I didn't mean it as a comeback," Julia protested, "I have really bad eyesight. He sounded familiar, but I couldn't make out his face, so I asked. It just came out really badly."

Harry goggled. Was this why Julia didn't recognise him at Knockturn Alley? Now that he thought about it, he was pretty sure Julia wasn't wearing glasses in the bowling alley either. How could she live life so blurry?

"Why don't you wear glasses?"

"My grandpa doesn't believe in glasses," said Julia wearily. "He wants me to correct my sight with magic the hard way. I practice as often as I can, but I'm no good at it." She pulled out pair dark plastic framed glasses from her robe pocket and put them on. Her resemblance to Mr. Lestrade vanished when the lenses obscured her eyes. "Grandpa would call this cheating."

They separated soon afterwards, Julia heading to the dungeons and Harry, Ron and Hermione to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Harry entered thinking nothing in particular.

Then he stared.

Harry couldn't believe it—all of the walls in the classroom were covered with framed photographs of Gilderoy Lockhart. Several of them were signed, and all of the photographic Lockharts were grinning and winking cheekily at him. As Harry dazedly pondered how he was supposed to take this, the real thing approached him.

"Harry!" said Lockhart, flashing his gleaming white teeth and planting both hands on Harry's shoulders in a paternal way. "So we meet again! I see you've kept all the books I gave you at the signing—good, good … It is unfortunate our first meeting was marred by such ridiculous accusations, but a celebrity can't live without a bit of controversy, eh? Well, you'll know soon enough. If you do well, you'll be like me, really taking in the fame! You're lucky that a few people already know you because of that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, you know. I had to work for every bit of recognition I have! I mean, it's not an easy to become Order of Merlin, Third Class, honourary member of the Dark Force Defence League and five time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile award, don't you agree?"

Harry felt slightly blinded when Lockhart gave him a hearty wink.

"I actually wondered if you asked your Muggle guardian to speak for you because you felt jealous!" Lockhart continued, wagging a manicured, soft-skinned finger, "Harry, Harry, Harry—if you did, and I don't blame you if you did— you have to realize jealousy won't take you far. You have to build your own name first, your own image, not tear down someone else's! Now I know what you're thinking: it's easy for him, he's already famous. Harry, Harry, Harry … when I was your age, I was nothing. It was hard work, building myself to this point from nothing. You can't blame me for wanting to defend myself, can you?"

Harry didn't know how he was supposed to respond to that, so he didn't. Lockhart mercifully shooed him off after giving him another wink. Harry took the seat at the very back and stacked all of seven Lockhart books in front of him so he could avoid looking at the author. Ron joined him.

"You looked like you had a concussion," said Ron. "Hopefully Malfoy won't ever see you with Lockhart, or he'll have all the slander fodder to last a lifetime."

"Don't give him ideas," Harry snapped. The last thing he needed was Malfoy having more ammunition.

Class went downhill from there.

Lockhart's introduction of himself was pretty much a rehash of what he said to Harry, except he mentioned Brandon Banshee at some point. Harry stop paying attention the moment Lockhart picked up Neville's copy of Travels with Trolls and showed them his own, winking portrait on the cover and said: "Me." Harry was forced to pay attention again when Lockhart handed out a Quiz that consisted of questions like: What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour? and when is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday? Harry just sat there staring at it, wondering the purpose of this. He half-heartedly scribbled down peacock blue for question one when Hermione glared at him, but afterwards something in Harry flopped over and fainted so he didn't continue. Lockhart collected the quizzes thirty minutes later. He rifled through the answers and tutted at the person who only managed to fill out one question and got it wrong. Harry didn't raise his hand when Lockhart asked the person to reveal himself.

Then in the spirit of facing the dark and unknown or something along those lines, Lockhart set loose a cage of freshly captured Cornish pixies.

It was a pandemonium. The pixies shot out the cage like so many electric-blue rockets. Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him up into the air. Another pair smashed themselves out through a window, scattering glass everywhere. Three dragged Lavender by the hair, one bit Ron's nose, and the rest destroyed the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with it, shredded books and papers, upended waste bins, tore down the photographs, and grabbed books and bags and threw them out of the smashed windows. In minutes half of the class was cowering under desks and Neville was swinging from the iron chandelier on the ceiling.

"Come on now—round them up, round them up, they're just pixies," Lockhart shouted. He rolled up his sleeves and bellowed: "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"

It had absolutely no effect. Two pixies grabbed Lockhart's wand and threw it out of the window. Lockhart gulped and dove under his own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who lost his grip.

Then Harry, who was among the few still standing, and until that point was just staring at the unfolding chaos whilst being pelted by torn pieces of paper and debris, had enough. He saw the clever freezing-charm Hermione was using to immobilize two pixies and decided to use a charm Sherlock had desperately wanted Harry to try at a crime scene.

"Stasis Omnibus Pixie."

Everything stopped. The pixies froze and floated mid-air like winged, blue, eight-inch long Christmas lights hanging on invisible strings. All you could hear was the creaking of the iron chandelier above and an odd sheet of paper fluttering to the ground.

Lockhart peered up from beneath his desk.

"Ah," he said, staring at the frozen pixies and giving Harry a swift, but genuinely terrified look, "Well, that was…"

The bell rang and there was a mad rush for the exit. Lockhart straightened himself up in the fresh set of chaos. He caught Harry, Ron and Hermione at the door and said, "Well, I'll ask you three to clean up." Then he swept past them and closed the door behind him.

"Can you believe him?" roared Ron, as he stuffed six immobilized pixies back into their cage.

"He just wants to give us hands on experience," said Hermione, using a repairing charm on the shattered windows.

"Hands on?" said Harry, who was trying to grab a pixie just out of his reach, "Hermione, he had no idea what he was doing!"

"Rubbish," said Hermione, "you read his books—look at all the amazing things he's done—"

"What he says he's done," Ron muttered. "You know, I reckon Sherlock is right about him."

He and Hermione bickered about this all the way down to the entrance hall. Harry, who was fast getting tired of the argument, told them to go ahead, he had to talk to Blippy.

"You're really taking good care of that girl," said Ron slyly.

"Oh, shut up," Harry grumbled. He wanted to explain himself, but he didn't think Ron or Hermione, who never had psychosomatic food problems and had never been starved, could understand that he felt cold and clammy whenever he smelled pork and that he felt sympathetic hunger pangs whenever he met a starving person because the Dursleys second most favourite punishment for him was withholding meals.

So he didn't. He just shooed them off.

-oo00oo-

Harry spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever he saw Lockhart in the corridors. It was difficult because Lockhart kept trying to corner him. Terry Boot, his friend from Ravenclaw, told Harry in the middle of the week Lockhart had unleashed the Cornish pixies at his first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. Lockhart cast the stasis charm Harry had used instead of the Peskipiksi Persternomi, only he didn't do it correctly and the unaffected pixies wrecked the Defence classroom again.

"I think he isn't used to casting the spell in front of an audience," said Terry generously. "I mean, he said he used the charm for years…"

Harry seriously doubted this. He had found the charm in Star Wars, a Guide to Blending Science and Magic for Witches and Wizards, and it wasn't a popular book because most people from magic families had neither knowledge nor interest in Muggle culture (Mr. Weasley being the notable exception). Besides, if Lockhart did know the spell, he wouldn't have used the Peskipiksi spell on Harry's first day.

Ron's wand further deteriorated over the week. Regular percussion therapy did nothing to fix it. More cracks splintered down from the broken tip and the range of malfunction increased with it, finally surpassing itself on Friday by shooting out of Ron's hand and hitting tiny little Professor Flitwick between the eyes, leaving a festering boil right where it hit him.

All in all, Harry was glad classes were over for the week as they left Charms. He was looking forward to a leisurely visit to Hagrid's in the afternoon after lunch, but then he got a text that gave him a strong, pointless urge to swear.

Music lessons this afternoon. Be there. I will know if you weren't. SH

"They're really not giving up on this, are they?" said Ron as he read the text over Harry's shoulder. "How many teachers did you go through so far? Five?"

"Six," growled Harry. Feeling distinctly rebellious, he replied: Why should I?

Sherlock sent a picture message. Harry choked when he saw the attachment. He quickly deleted it before either Ron or Hermione could properly see.

I will send this to Snape. SH

U r a nasty & evil prson, Harry typed savagely.

I know. SH

Harry put his phone away, scowling. Ron looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh and Hermione had a 'what-did-you-expect' face.

"You know, Harry, if you actually practiced it wouldn't be so bad," said Hermione.

"I did practice," Harry lied. "It's not my fault I've got no talent for music…"

They walked across the entrance hall. There was a small knot of people gathered around the notice board, reading a piece of parchment that had been pinned up. Justin Finch-Fletchley and Ernie Macmillan beckoned them over.

"They're starting music classes!" said Justin, "First class this afternoon at four o' clock, all genres and instruments welcomed! What do you think? I always wanted to play the electric guitar, but father insisted on classical music …"

"There're guitars that run on electricity?" said Ron, bemused but fascinated. "How does that even work?"

"Maybe we'll learn about wizarding music?" Hermione speculated. "I read about the Incipio Musica charm…"

Harry suddenly realized what Sherlock meant by music lessons and felt his spirit lift up a bit.

"No, its regular music lessons," said Harry. "I think I know the teacher. She's good."

That made Ron and Hermione's interest even keener. The three of them agreed to go to the new music classroom at four. Twenty or so students were present when they got there, and were examining the many available instruments. Justin and Ernie were there, and so was Julia. There was also a mousy first-year boy Harry swore was following him everywhere. A few teachers were present too, including (Harry did a double-take) Albus Dumbledore.

"Even Dumbledore is here!" Hermione squealed. "Who is she, Harry? What is she like?"

"It's Miss Jackie. She—"Harry began, but he didn't finish. A small young woman entered the chamber noiselessly and approached the small crowd, looking both unassuming and odd wearing black open-toe heals, black slacks and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

Miss Jackie surveyed the diverse group of people, many whom weren't very impressed at what they were seeing. Small and fragile-looking, Miss Jackie gave the impression of a person who failed to thrive and had just recovered from a long bout of illness. Miss Jackie told them her name and then gave them all a small smile.

"Before I get into the meat of the lesson, I'd like to do a practical demo," said Miss Jackie in gentle voice. "So if everyone can be so kind as to participate … no, no." She smiled again when a couple of third year Ravenclaw girls twittered nervously. "I'm not going to ask you to play a Nocturne by Frédéric Chopin. I only ask you to be patient."

Miss Jackie raised a small, square paper placard with a white circle inside.

"I have some cards," she said. "All you have to do is play your assigned sound in repeat when the circle turns green, and stop when the circle turns white again."

Harry felt curious. What was Miss Jackie trying to do? And what kind of sound were they supposed to play? Was it going to be hard?

Miss Jackie went to a nearby piano and wrapped the keyboard cover against the face several times in a consistent beat.

"Can you do that?" she asked to Ron.

Ron nodded and took the card Miss Jackie handed over to him, looking terribly bemused.

Miss Jackie went around like that, asking a third-year boy to drum the backside of a cello with his palms, a fourth-year girl to pluck three strings on a grand piano in a certain order, and so on. Nothing complicated, except no one had any idea what she was up to. Not everyone got a sound assigned to them either— Miss Jackie just told them they'd know what to do when their time came as she gave out the cards. Finally, she whispered something into Dumbledore's ear and Dumbledore beamed.

"Okay, all set," said Miss Jackie, now standing behind a grand piano, hands on the keys, "Now off we go."

The fourth-year girl was first. She plucked the piano strings as instructed. In a few seconds, another student flicked a different set of piano strings. Then the third-year boy started drumming. Miss Jackie started plinking a simple tune with one key. More people joined in with their sounds as their circles turned green. The simple tunes all blended together, creating a richer sound.

Then suddenly, everyone realized they were playing a discernible melody. Everyone stared at each other in awe as Miss Jackie started embellishing the tune they were already playing on the piano. Everything worked together, the drumming of the cello, the flicking of piano strings, and the sawing a single harp string with a bow. Even Ron's rhythmic wrapping of the keyboard cover brought a unique beat. Everyone was bobbing their heads and those who didn't have a sound assigned to them started clapping. The boy assigned to drum the cello started to improvise. Miss Jackie's piano playing got ever more playful and mischievous—fingers flying across the keyboard in effortless grace, her long black hair swishing and beaming hugely, it looked more like she was dancing than playing.

Then Dumbledore raised his wand and flicked out a ribbon that formed the following words:

Hogwarts! Hogwarts! Hoggy Warty Hogwarts!
Teach us something, please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they're bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
Just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot.

Soon they were all singing the school song along to the tune. There was no need to pay attention to their cards anymore—everyone just carried on and sang in gusto, amazed at what they were doing.

At length they came to a natural stop, and everyone burst into a long, thunderous applause.

"You were all so wonderful," said Miss Jackie earnestly at the end, "You're an amazingly talented group."

"Can we do another one?" asked the third-year boy eagerly.

"Did you write the song yourself?" piped a first-year.

Miss Jackie made calming gestures while glowing pink. When the students settled down, she resumed speaking.

"The purpose of this demo was to show you playing music is more than just hitting the right note at the right time," said Miss Jackie. "But here is the more important question: did you have fun?"

The yes was universal. Miss Jackie smiled again.

"Good. Because playing music should be fun. Whether you're experiencing the fun at the moment or you're looking forward to the fun you'll have in the future as you're going through the drudgery of practice, playing music ought to be fun. I want you to remember that above all else.

"That said," said Miss Jackie. "I think we can now start talking about instruments. Those of you who have some idea of what you want to play—and remember voice is a perfectly fine option— please follow the other me."

Then as calmly as you please, Miss Jackie multiplied herself into two. The duplicate walked over to a corner, beckoning the students to follow after her/it. A large subset of students went, many with their jaws hanging open.

"The rest of you can come here," said Miss Jackie.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, the mousy first-year and Dumbledore went over to Miss Jackie.

"Good to see you, Headmaster, Ron, Harry, Hermione," said Miss Jackie warmly. Then she turned to the firstie. "What is your name?"

"I— I'm Colin Creevey," said the little boy.

"Is this your first year at Hogwarts?"

"Yes," said Colin breathlessly. "It's amazing here. I never knew the odd stuff I could do was magic until I got my Hogwarts letter. My dad is a deliveryman, he couldn't believe it either. I was going to take loads of pictures and send it to him, but—" he drooped a little, "my camera doesn't work here. A boy in my dormitory said electronics don't work in Hogwarts so I need to find an old analogue one. But he also said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures will move."

Dumbledore and Miss Jackie smiled indulgently as Colin babbled on. When he finished, Miss Jackie spoke to all of them.

"Today I'm going to help you choose an instrument," she said. "There is a wide range to choose from, and you want to start with something you can enjoy. Does anyone have an instrument they like the sound of?"

Hermione raised her hand.

"I always like the sound of a flute," she said.

"Okay," said Miss Jackie. "Do you have any respiratory problems?"

Hermione looked startled. Miss Jackie rubbed the back of her head apologetically.

"Sorry, but I had to ask. It's not that people who have respiratory problems like asthma aren't allowed to play wind instruments, but I do have to teach them how to work around it."

Hermione reported no problems. Miss Jackie picked up a flute from the towering shelf full of wind instruments and played something Harry heard before (Méditation of Thais, he later learned). After Hermione confirmed that this was the sound she had in mind, Miss Jackie moved onto Ron.

"Dunno," said Ron. "Never really thought about it until today…"

Miss Jackie's dark eyes twinkled.

"Show me your hand."

Ron raised his right hand, bewildered. Miss Jackie placed her left hand against it, finger to finger, palm to palm. Their hands were roughly the same size.

"You have big hands and you're not even done growing," said Miss Jackie. "Having a large hand-span is great advantage for a pianist. I personally find men who play the piano very attractive. Would you like to try?"

"Uh, sure," said Ron, turning pink around the ears.

"Are you really?" asked Miss Jackie. "Piano is easy enough to pick up, but not an easy instrument to keep on going with. It gets difficult very quickly, and a lot people give up too soon."

Ron shrugged his shoulders. Miss Jackie went from examining Ron's hand to checking his forearms.

"You know, with a bit of training, you might be able to play a piece I could never do justice," Miss Jackie remarked. "You have the right forearms."

Ron frowned. "What do my forearms have anything to do with playing the piano?"

Miss Jackie demonstrated. Not in a million years did Harry think smashing your forearm across the keys was a legitimate method of playing the piano, or that it could sound okay under any circumstances, but the forearm smashing was critical for the piece's climax. As for the piece itself, it was so uplifting Harry felt like he could go and conquer something.

"You really think I can do that?" asked Ron excitedly.

"Well, yes," said Miss Jackie, as if she was surprised Ron would doubt it. Thus sold, Ron decided to go ahead.

The five of them took a short break to listen to Miss Jackie's duplicate play Pirates of the Caribbean's main theme; how she could hit so many chords without missing a note or run her thumb up and down the keys without breaking it, Harry didn't know. The clone ended the number by sitting on the lower end of the keyboard with a flourish—and it sounded just right.

"You play the piano better with your posterior than I do with my fingers," said Dumbledore, shaking his head.

"Please, sir," said Miss Jackie, covering her reddening face behind her hand.

She moved onto Colin. Colin quickly confessed to only visiting out of curiosity and not to actually learn music. Miss Jackie didn't seem to mind that, and moved onto Dumbledore.

"I used to play the fiddle in my youth," said Dumbledore. "But that was many years ago, and I'm quite eager to try something new."

"Anything you fancy, sir?"

"I don't particularly care which instrument as long as you think I can rightly handle it in my old age. I'm convinced you can make everything sound perfectly lovely, be it penny whistle, highland bagpipe or spoons."

Miss Jackie covered her face behind both hands.

"Everything has their time and context, sir," she said in small voice, peeking behind her hands. "But since you mentioned a whistle, perhaps you'd like to try something like this?"

She played the Hobbit/Shire theme from the Lord of the Rings movie. Dumbledore was misty-eyed at the end of it and gave her a wordless thumps-up.

Only Harry was left. He felt both excited and apprehensive.

"I hope you're not here by coercion alone," said Miss Jackie gently. "It's really fine if you don't want to."

Harry smiled nervously. "As long as it's not cello…"

"Too many bad memories?"

Memories of his past teachers marched through Harry's head and he shuddered. Miss Jackie chuckled.

"Do you have a favourite song or piece?" asked Miss Jackie.

"I have a playlist," said Harry, holding up his phone.

Miss Jackie went through it. "You have a lot of instrumentals."

"It helps me sleep," said Harry.

Miss Jackie flicked her glance briefly at Harry before going back to the list. Dumbledore was studying him, too, and Harry had a feeling he was being x-rayed.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," said Miss Jackie. "But it seems like you're more about pieces than you are about specific instruments."

Harry nodded.

"Then you want to start with something versatile, something that can handle a lot of different compositions," said Miss Jackie. "Piano is always an option, and so is the guitar. Greg told me you liked it, yes?"

"Yes, but…"

"Sherlock doesn't?"

Harry shook his head miserably. Miss Jackie studied him for moment, considering and weighing.

"What do you think about the violin?" she asked.

Harry thought of midnight caterwauling and brooding, melancholy solos. His feelings about these must have been clear on his face because Miss Jackie smiled ruefully.

"Don't let bad memories of an instrument hinder you," she said. "The violin and cello are wonderfully versatile instruments, and they can make the most beautiful sounds."

If they could, Harry never heard it, certainly not from Sherlock. Well, he heard some impressive cello music from Miss Jackie back in the bowling alley, but…

"Do you know John's most favourite piece of classical music?"

"Pachelbel's Canon," said Harry promptly.

Miss Jackie nodded. "Let's try playing it with different instruments and see which one you like best."

Harry agreed.

Miss Jackie played the George Winston's rendition of Pachelbel's Canon on the piano first. It was touching and felt clean, but Harry would rather listen to it again at night than play it himself. The cello version left people dancing about, but Harry still had reservations against the cello (maybe later—it was so much fun!).

Then Miss Jackie picked up the violin.

Without a doubt, the violin version was the simplest. But something about the sound seemed to reach deep into his soul and stir something raw and alive. Harry forgot where he was and just listened.

There was no applause at the end of this piece. Just a silence that spoke more eloquently than cheers ever could.

Miss Jacqueline lowered the violin.

"What do you think?"

Harry dimly noted his eyes were wet. He just nodded.

Miss Jackie nodded back and simply said, "Okay."

-oo00oo-

Final Notes: Harry does not like Lockhart's male cattle excrement. I was horrified and amused at the ease in which I could conjure up Lockhart's speech patterns. Did JKR feel this way when she wrote CS? I wonder…

Ron gets to play piano because he has big hands and feet, and like Jon Schmidt of the Piano Guys, has red hair. ;-) Left on his own devices, Harry would no doubt pick the guitar. I just wanted to mess things around a bit and threw the violin in.

Sherlock's mini lecture is based on the advice from John C. Bogle, the genius who created the first index fund (Vanguard 500 Index Fund), and several finance/investment classics including but not limited to: Intelligent Investor by Benjamin Graham (mentor of Warren Buffet), A Random Walk Down Wall Street by Burton Malkiel, and Your Money or Your Life by Joe Dominguez and Vicki Robin. I did not include anything that I haven't tried myself as a private investor and didn't produce good results. I also consulted a couple of online investment calculators to make sure the examples are as accurate as possible. Sherlock rounded off the numbers and didn't talk about taxes and regulations because even he knows it would fly over a twelve year old boy's head.