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 Two: Wand Woes

In no time at all, violin lessons became an integral part of Harry's routine. Learning how to play a violin was as difficult as learning how to play a cello, but unlike Mr. Sigered, who exploded in anger whenever Harry kept doing same wrong thing, or Mrs. Lachlan, who made Harry do repetitive and deeply boring exercises before leaving to take care of someone else, Miss Jackie stayed for the entire lesson and listened to his (terrible) efforts patiently.

"Don't worry about it," said Miss Jackie after enduring fifteen minutes of Harry producing the most embarrassing, cringe-worthy screeches, "making sound on a violin takes time. You're getting there."

Slowly, Harry progressed from making ear throbbing screeches or no sound at all without any clue as to why to consistently playing full octaves without dropping any notes. The notes themselves sounded dull and uninspiring, but Miss Jackie was very happy with the progress. So Harry felt hopeful of his prospects as a violinist.

Harry wished he could say he was making the same slow but steady progress in increasing his endurance as a Quidditch player. Unfortunately, his health had not improved since last year. He discovered that in the subsequent practices following the memorable first one.

Harry's first Quidditch practice happened on the first Saturday of the term. It more or less started when Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch team captain, shook him awake.

"Whassamater?" said Harry groggily.

"Quidditch Practice," said Wood. "Come on!"

Harry squinted at the window. A mist was still hanging over the pink-and-gold sky and the birds were making their morning racket.

"Oliver," Harry croaked. "It's the crack of dawn."

"Exactly," said Wood, his eyes gleaming with crazed enthusiasm. "This is part of our new training program. None of the other teams have started training yet. We're going to be first off the mark this year. Now come on, grab your broom and let's go."

Yawning and shivering, Harry got out of bed to search for his Quidditch robes.

"Good man," said Wood, "Meet you at the pitch in fifteen minutes."

When he found his scarlet team robes and pulled on his thermal jacket for warmth, Harry scribbled a note to Ron explaining where he'd gone and went down the spiral staircase to the common room, carrying his Nimbus on his shoulder. He almost made it to the portrait hole when there was a clatter behind him and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, an old analogue camera hanging ominously on his neck.

"I heard someone saying your name from the stairs, Harry! Look, my Dad finally sent me an analogue camera. Do you think you can take a picture with me?"

"Ummm … no," said Harry, the memory of Colin ambushing him after the previous afternoon's music lessons still fresh in his mind. Colin, who Harry was almost certain was stalking him, had warbled how he knew all about Harry, how he survived when Voldemort tried to kill him, then made him disappear, and Harry still had a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead and a strange ability to make electronics work in Hogwarts since the incident (the last bit took Harry by surprise; since when did the students of Hogwarts start thinking this?). Then he asked Harry if he could take a picture with him. Further startled, Harry asked why, and Colin said it was to prove he really met him. Harry declined, explaining to Colin he didn't have the ability to make digital cameras work in Hogwarts. Apparently Colin was not deterred by such pesky things. "Sorry, Colin, I have to go. Quidditch practice…"

Harry really should have expected the reaction:

"Oh, wow! Wait for me! I've never seen a Quidditch game before!" said Colin as he scrambled through the portrait hole after him.

Colin questioned Harry on Quidditch all the way down to the entrance hall and across the sloping lawn. Harry didn't know how to the get rid of him. It was like having an extremely talkative shadow. Harry only shook him off at the stadium; Colin had called out in a piping voice, "I'll go and get a good seat, Harry!" and hurried off to the stands.

His team mates were already in the changing rooms when Harry entered. Fred and George Weasley were puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, and the three Chasers, Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson, kept nodding off. Wood, who was the only one truly awake, proceeded to go through three diagrams explaining the new tactics he'd formulated over the summer, spending twenty minutes per diagram. Fred's head drooped right on Alicia's shoulder while Wood went over the first diagrams and he stared to snore.

"So," said Wood at long last, jerking Harry from his wistful fantasy about what he could be eating for breakfast at the castle. "Is that clear? Any questions?"

"I have a question," said George, who had woken with a start. "Why couldn't you have told us this yesterday when we were awake?"

Wood was displeased.

"Listen you lot," he said, glowering at them all, "We should've won the Quidditch cup last year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately—owing to a terrible misunderstanding—"

Harry shifted in his seat. Harry had spent fifty minutes of his allotted sixty flying around with his team mates before the match against Ravenclaw, thinking Madam Pomfrey's one hour restriction only pertained to Quidditch and not flying general. Thus he was taken off the game in ten minutes, despite Wood and Harry's howls of protest. The team was forced to play with one player short and suffered their worst defeat in three hundred seventy years.

Wood took a moment to regain control over himself. Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him.

"So this year we're going to train harder than ever before… and we're going to finish every single game within an hour! Now let's go and put our theories into practice!" Wood shouted. He seized his broomstick and led the way out. His team mates followed, stiff-kneed and yawning.

They've been in the changing room for so long the sun had risen completely, though remnants of the mist were still clinging around the grass. As Harry walked onto the pitch, he saw Ron and Hermione sitting on the stands.

"Aren't you finished yet?" called Ron incredulously.

"Haven't even started," said Harry, looking jealously at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione brought out from the Great Hall. "Wood was showing us new moves."

Harry pulled out his own 'new move' from his pocket as his team mates mounted their brooms.

"What is that?" asked Wood.

"A face mask," said Harry as he pulled the mask John stitched up using a black Polyester shirt over his head. "My Muggle Mum figured flying is a lot like skiing, so if I avoid direct wind contact, I could probably play longer."

Harry devoutly hoped Wood wasn't going to kiss him because he looked like he wanted to. To avoid the possibility, Harry quickly mounted his broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring into air. The cool morning air whipped the parts of his face that were still exposed, which was around the eyes and nostrils, waking him up more effectively than Wood's long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on the Quidditch pitch. He flew right around the stadium at full speed, racing Fred and George, and felt triumphant when his lungs didn't ache.

"What's that funny clicking noise?" called Fred as they hurtled around the corner.

Harry looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats taking picture after picture, the shutter sound of his raised camera strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.

"Look this way, Harry! This way!" he cried shrilly.

"Who is that?" said Fred.

"Somebody," said Harry, putting on a spurt of speed that took him as far away as possible from Colin.

"What's going on?" said Wood, frowning, as he skimmed through the air toward them. "Why is that first year taking pictures? He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program."

"He's in Gryffindor," said Harry quickly.

"And the Slytherins don't need a spy, Oliver," said George.

"Why is that?" asked Wood testily.

"Because they're here in person," said George, pointing.

Several wizards in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands.

"I don't believe this!" Wood hissed in outrage. "I booked the pitch for today! We'll see about this."

They did, eventually. Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch team captain, showed the Gryffindors the permission slip Professor Snape gave him to use the Quidditch pitch to train their new Seeker, Draco Malfoy, and the seven new Nimbus brooms Lucius Malfoy had bought for them—the latest model, only came out last month, and according to Flint, they outstripped Harry's own Nimbus by a considerable amount.

"Good, aren't they?" said Malfoy smoothly, when Ron gaped, open-mouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks. "But perhaps Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep fives; I expect a museum would bid for them."

The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," said Hermione sharply. "They got in on pure talent."

The smug look on Malfoy's face flickered.

"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat.

Harry finally knew how bad of a word 'Mudblood' was because there was an instant uproar. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George from jumping him, Alicia shrieked "How dare you!", and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" and pointed it furiously under Flint's arm at Malfoy's face.

A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron's wand, which was spellotaped to stop further damage. The light hit him in the stomach and sent him reeling backward onto the grass.

"Ron! Ron! Are you all right?" squealed Hermione.

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead he gave a mighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap.

The Slytherin team members were paralyzed with laughter. Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new broomstick for support. Malfoy was on all fours, fist banging the ground. The Gryffindors were gathered around Ron, who kept belching large, glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to want to touch him.

"Let's go to Hagrid's, it's nearest," said Harry to Hermione, who nodded bravely, and the pair of them pulled Ron up by the arms. Colin, who had run down from his seat and was now staring at Ron, camera raised and fascinated, said: "Oooh, can you hold him still, Harry?"

"Get of the way, Colin!" Harry snarled, and Colin jumped out of the away.

He and Hermione supported Ron out of the stadium and across the grounds towards the edge of the forest. There they saw Lockhart, dressed in mauve (why!?), leaving Hagrid's cabin. Harry didn't want to deal with him, so he directed them to duck behind a nearby bush, and Hermione followed reluctantly. Once the coast was clear, they urgently knocked on the door. Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expression brightened to moment he realized who it was.

"Bin wonderin' when you'd come ter see me. Come in, come in—thought you were Professor Lockhart—"

Harry and Hermione supported Ron into the one-roomed cabin. Hagrid wasn't perturbed by Ron's slug problem, which Harry explained as he lowered Ron to a chair.

"Better out than in," said Hagrid cheerfully, plunking a large copper basin in front of Ron, "Get'em all out, Ron."

Hagrid bustled about preparing tea as Ron heaved into the basin. When Harry asked why Lockhart was hanging around, Hagrid growled Lockhart trying to tell him how to keep Kelpies out of a well, as if anyone who didn't read Fantastic Beast and Where to Find Them as a first year wouldn't know, and banged about a banshee he banished. Hagrid swore if one word of it was true, he'd eat is kettle (Harry privately thought Hagrid was in no danger of eating kettles). Then Hagrid asked who Ron was trying to curse. This led to the subject of the word 'Mudblood'.

"It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," gasped Ron, after Hagrid reacted in outrage, "Mudblood is a really foul name for someone who's Muggle-born. There are wizards like Malfoy's family who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood. I mean the rest of us know it doesn't make any difference. Look at Neville Longbottom—he's pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up."

"An' they still haven't invented a spell our Hermione can' do," said Hagrid proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.

"It's a disgusting thing to call someone," said Ron, wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand. "Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It's ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles we'd've died out."

He retched and ducked out of sight again.

"Well, I don' blame yeh fer tryin' to curse him, Ron," said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin. "Bu' maybe it's a good thing yer wand backfired. 'Spect Lucius Malfoy would've come marchin' up ter school if yeh'd cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble."

Harry would've pointed out that trouble didn't come much worse than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but he couldn't; Hagrid's treacle fudge had cemented his jaws together. Harry then had more reasons to keep this opinion to himself. After the first two weeks of successful full-length Quidditch practices, a damp chill fell upon the grounds and seeped into the castle. Madam Pomfrey was kept busy by a spate of colds among the students and staff. Her pepper-up potion worked instantly, but it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours. Harry gained a stuffy-nose and a persistent dull headache as raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end. Neither of these things dampened Oliver Wood's enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, which was why Harry, drenched to the skin far too often, caught pneumonia.

Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey's rage knew no bounds when Harry was carried into the Hospital Wing running a high fever and a racking cough. After putting Oliver in several detentions for irresponsibility, Madam Pomfrey banned Harry from all future Quidditch practices until it stopped raining and his health recovered. That was the first half of the bad news. The second half came from Fred and George, who had been spying on the Slytherin team. They reported the speed of the new Nimbus broomsticks were such that the Slytherins looked nothing more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the air like missiles.

Harry complained about it to John after he got over his pneumonia (three day turnover verses the two to three week turnover of Muggle medicine; wizard healing may be medieval, but it was extremely effective).

"Harry, water-repelling charms exist for a reason," rumbled Sherlock in the background.

"Sherlock, not now," John scolded, while Harry smacked his forehead for not thinking it himself. "Harry, if you catch the snitch before the other team's Chasers can score more than a hundred and fifty points, does it matter how fast their brooms are?"

"No," said Harry.

"There you go then," said John sensibly. "You just focus on catching that snitch within an hour and keeping yourself as warm and dry as possible. You know, I've been thinking: wouldn't it be cool if you built a reputation of finishing all your games in an hour? Flying is exciting and all, but three week long games sound miserable to me. Let's keep things sweet and British, I say."

Thus Harry was in a cautiously optimistic mood when he paid his sixth visit to Hospital wing in the company of Ginny Weasley. Ginny had been looking pale, so Percy bullied her into joining Harry to get some Pepper-up potion too. The steam coming out from her vivid red hair gave the impression her whole head was on fire.

"Feeling better?" asked Harry.

Ginny nodded wordlessly, and tripped over a couple of stairs for that moment of inattention. Harry pretended not to notice. Talking to Ginny was a bit like talking to Neville—as soon as the thing that was making them self-conscious was gone or they got acclimatized to it, they were perfectly fine. Ginny was certainly talkative and out-going when she thought Harry wasn't looking. Harry hoped she'd get over this strange bout of shyness soon—he didn't want any of the Weasleys to feel awkward towards him.

"Do you have any ideas on what to do with our match against Slytherin?" Harry prattled to fill up the silence, "We could definitely use a reserve team … would you be interested in trying out?"

Again, Ginny nodded without saying anything. But it was a start.

"Do you play Quidditch with your brothers?"

"They don't even ask me join," Ginny huffed. Then she turned tomato-red like she said too much.

Harry continued his policy of complete blindness towards any and all awkwardness.

"You know how to fly a broom, though."

"I've been breaking into the shed and flying my brothers' brooms since I was six," said Ginny, still blushing.

"I reckon we could work around the first year rule," said Harry. "It's just brooms first years aren't allowed to have, after all. Nothing stops you from borrowing one—a team broom, I mean." He added the last bit hastily. "Er, what is your favourite Quidditch team?"

Ginny said she liked the Holyhead Harpies, and from there Harry could ease the conversation into asking her about the team and why she liked them. Ginny was a lot more comfortable and less prone to knocking things over when they talked about Quidditch. Harry kept that in mind for future reference as he bade her farewell at the fourth floor so he could meet his Hufflepuff friends in the library. He and Justin Finch-Fletchley continued their weekly meet-ups from last year, and now it included Justin's friends Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbot, plus Hannah's friend Susan Bones whenever she had the time.

Harry tried not to make a noise when he entered the muffled stillness of the library. Madam Pince, the librarian, was a thin, irritable woman who looked like an underfed vulture. She glared at Harry and his smoking ears, probably displeased at the possible damage the steam was inflicting upon her precious books, but she didn't say anything because—well, what could she say?

He found the familiar group of four in the usual corner: curly-haired Justin, the stout Ernie, Hannah and her blonde hair in pigtails, and Susan in hair done in a long French braid.

"Did you get another cold?" asked Justin incredulously after greeting him.

"I don't think the first one really went away, no matter what Madam Pomfrey says," Harry grumbled. "She's threatening to reserve a bed for my use only if I get another one before Hallowe'en."

"I thought you already had your own bed," Susan teased.

"Nope, I haven't fallen that far," said Harry.

They worked on their Herbology essays and chatted quietly. Susan returned Harry's copy of The Hobbit she'd borrowed two weeks ago, and said it was very charming. Harry mentioned its sequel The Lord of the Rings and Susan showed definite interested in reading the trilogy. Justin and Harry talked about the latest Dr. Who episode before reverting to more wizard-friendly topics like latest songs on the WWN (Wizarding Wireless Network). Harry knew very little about the WWN and what it broadcast, but that was fine; he didn't mind just listening.

When they left the Library for dinner, Hannah and Ernie took Harry aside to have a word.

"Could you let one of our first years borrow your phone?" Hannah asked nervously.

"Who is it?" asked Harry. He didn't lend his phone willy-nilly these days, not since Malfoy destroyed his old one.

"Julia Lestrade," said Ernie. "She's a Muggle-raised half-blood. She wants to talk to her Dad badly, but he's a Muggle, so he doesn't know much about our world."

"Okay," said Harry. "When is a good time?"

"How about after dinner? Where should we tell her to go?"

"Tell her to meet me at the trophy room on the third floor, it's usually empty."

The three of them talked about Julia as they headed to the Great Hall. Apparently Julia was having trouble with most of her classes, particularly Charms and Transfiguration.

"No offence, but she reminds me of Neville Longbottom," said Ernie. "It's been over a month and she still can't get her wand to work properly, and I was expecting something more from the Grandmaster's granddaughter."

"Why do people keep calling her that?" asked Harry.

"Because she is," said Ernie pompously. "Her grandfather Shin June Hu is called the Grandmaster because he's the only wizard in the world who can do all types of magic without a wand. Even Dumbledore can't do that."

Harry gaped. All this time he'd thought Mr. Shin was just an ordinary old man who incidentally was a wizard. He certainly didn't look like an equal to Albus Dumbledore; whereas Dumbledore seem to personify the word 'wizard' wherever he was, Mr. Shin could easily lose himself in a sea of Muggles and none the wiser. But then again, all of the magic Mr. Shin performed at Diagon Alley was done without a wand, and they were pretty impressive feats of magic. Harry never dreamed that this was a one-of-a-kind sort of thing.

"She's not exactly like Neville, though," said Hannah, "She doesn't have any problems finishing the written assignments and she's really good at Potions and Herbology. I heard Professor Snape said she had the knack."

"…Shut up," said Harry, more shocked at this bit news than the one about Julia's grandfather. He never heard of Snape complimenting someone outside of his own Slytherin house, whom he always favoured.

"I know, I couldn't believe it either," said Ernie, shaking his head. "But then her grandfather is the Grandmaster. I guess that makes her an exception."

The three of them separated inside the Great Hall, Ernie and Hannah joining their fellow Hufflepuffs and Harry his Gryffindors. Ron apparently just returned from his Piano lessons; he looked wrung out.

"I'm starting to hate Czerny," said Ron, scowling. "If I ever see him, I'm going to kill him."

"Too bad he's already dead, then," said Harry, suppressing a smile.

"Yeah, just my luck," Ron grumbled as he savagely attacked his plate of black pudding.

Harry ate bubble and squeak that was a lot greener than the way he preferred it ("Vitamins, Harry. They're frequently dressed in green. They make you stronger and prevent colds," John said). Heavy rain droplets beat the tall windows in waves as the wind screamed and howled, but the Great Hall was bright and cheerful, full of student chatter, delicious smells, luminous candles and warm fires. Harry stole a brief look at the Hufflepuff table. Hannah and Ernie were talking to Julia, who looked wane, stressed and terribly uncertain.

Harry timed his exit to be around the time Julia started packing her many books.

"I have to do something quick. I'll see you two at the Common Room."

Harry left the Great Hall, climbed half-way up to the first floor and partially hid himself behind a tall finial at the bend. He looked down and saw Julia dragging her feet across the entrance hall. She hesitated at the mouth of the wide staircase, oscillating between the stone steps leading down and the marble stairs leading up. Then, gripping the railing she marched up, one step at a time.

Julia was so focused on climbing, she didn't notice Harry and walked right pass him.

"Hello."

Julia started and faced left. Harry let out a single, amused chuckle at her startled face.

"Let's go."

Harry led the way to the third floor. He didn't look back to see if Julia was following, but the soft patter of footsteps right behind him told Harry she was. Harry took a brief sideway glance at the corridor that once housed Fluffy and wondered where the three headed hellhound was taken to (the Forbidden Forest, perhaps?). He didn't pause, though, but turned straight into the Charms corridor and entered the trophy room. It was empty except for the crystal display cases that kept all the old awards, trophies, statues, cups, plates, shields, and medals.

Harry politely studied the Award for Special Services to the School given to one T.M. Riddle as he readied his phone and waited for Julia to appear.

Julia warily poked her head into the trophy room, like a spooked clownfish investigating the waters outside the confines of its anemone. Then her head withdrew and her entire person entered, one tentative foot first, the shoulder on the same side next, and the rest of her body quietly slipping in afterwards. She stood awkwardly by the door, her hands loosely knitted around her stomach as she watched Harry uncertainly. Harry held up his phone. Julia switched from looking at the phone, to Harry, then back again. Harry repeated the offering gesture. A few beats later, Julia unknitted her hands, slowly reached out for the phone and dialled a number.

The universal dialling tone rang inside the silent trophy room three times. Then there was the tall-tail click signalling an open line.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade," said a familiar growly voice.

Julia's voice hitched. "Daddy?"

"Julia?" said Mr. Lestrade in astonishment. "Sweetheart, is that you?"

That was as far as that conversation went. Julia's eyes welled over and she burst into wailing sobs. Every time she tried to stay something, nothing would come out and she would dissolve right back into tears. Mr. Lestrade kept asking in increasingly distressed tones, "Julia, what's wrong?" and "Sunshine, are you all right?"

It took a while for Julia to calm down. At length she sniffled, took several gulping breaths and wiped the tears away from her eyes with the heel of her palm.

"Miss you," she whispered, two errant tears escaping and trickling down her nose.

"Miss you too," said Mr. Lestrade in choked voice. "Love ya. You know that, yeah?"

"Uhn," Julia replied, after swallowing back sob.

Julia and Mr. Lestrade didn't talk afterwards. Julia ended the call with a soft, barely discernible 'bye', thrust the phone back into Harry's hands and ran out of the trophy room. Harry followed after her.

Harry found Julia inside the armour gallery, crouching behind an ugly suit of armour perhaps made for a troll. She had her face buried into her knees, but her shoulders weren't shaking. Uncertain of his role in this situation, Harry felt around the insides of his robe pockets. There he found the Chocolate Frogs he kept for snacking. He plunked down next to Julia and prodded a packet against her leg.

"Here, have one."

Julia looked up a fraction. She blinked miserably at the Chocolate Frog before looking away, mumbling: "No."

"Go on, take it," Harry urged. "It'll make you feel better."

Julia took the packet. She nibbled on a hind-leg listlessly after unwrapping it. There was a moment of surprise when she tasted the chocolate. Then she stuffed the rest of the Chocolate Frog into her mouth and chewed.

"…I thought eating chocolate making you feel better was a myth," said Julia after swallowing.

"It could be," Harry agreed.

They sat in a companionable silence.

"You can borrow my phone again, if you like," said Harry. "Just let me know."

"I can?" Julia stammered. "I mean, is it okay? I heard you used to, but not anymore."

"I only lend it to the people I know," said Harry. "Your Dad and my Mum are friends, so you're okay."

Julia let out a silent oh, and then nodded. "Thank you."

There was another bout of silence. Harry pretended to look around while Julia fiddled the hem of her robe, looking like she desperately wanted to say something.

"Can I ask you a question?" Julia finally erupted.

"Sure, what about?" said Harry.

"Spells," said Julia. "How do you do them? I can't seem to get them to work."

"Er, I don't think I'm the right person to ask that question," said Harry awkwardly. "I do okay, but it's really Hermione who—"

"'Hermione Granger is top of everything in grades, but when it comes to casting spells, Harry Potter is the best.' That's what everyone told me," said Julia.

Harry wanted to know who 'they' were, so he could speak some serious words against exaggeration.

"There has to be something I'm missing," Julia went on. "I mean, I can't even get my wand to like me, and…"

Harry frowned. "What do you mean you can't get your wand to like you?"

"Exactly what I mean," said Julia, sounding deeply upset as she pulled out an old, but well-polished wand. "My wand hates me. I can tell."

Harry wanted to point out wands didn't have minds to have feelings with, but he could hardly say so when he was no more a wand expert than the average Muggle-born second year, baring, of course, Hermione. Figuring he should at least try a couple of spells to see what the fuss was about, Harry took hold of Julia's wand.

He was immediately stabbed with the strong feeling of NO. If the wand had eyes, it would have given Harry a deadly glare for having ideas above his station. Shaken, Harry quickly let go of the wand.

"Your wand doesn't like me either."

"Right?" Julia exclaimed. "I'm not imagining things, right?"

"No," Harry confirmed.

Harry chewed on his lower lip as he recalled everything he knew about wands. He didn't know much. "It's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course," said Mr. Ollivander, when Harry entered his shop to buy his own wand. Also: "You won't quite achieve the same results from another person's wand." Harry was pretty sure Julia was using her mother's old wand ("I'll definitely look for Cecilia's old wand."). The first day he met Ron, he told Harry he never got anything new, having five brothers; he got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat. If he remembered correctly, Neville was using his father's old wand. He and Hermione had new wands, and never had the kind of trouble Ron and Neville regularly had in class: lacklustre response, odd behaviour, or just plain not working. But. Seamus and Dean had new wands and they were doing about as well as Ron. Yet Harry couldn't shake the feeling there was a connection here somewhere.

"I never had to make my wand like me," said Harry slowly. "And I don't think your wand is acting like this because you didn't practice or something like that. Ernie told me you're good at Potions, and that takes a lot of work."

"But Potions isn't like doing spells," Julia protested. "I'm sure even Muggles can do it."

"No, they can't. I know so. Sherlock tried and even the simplest potion didn't work. You need to have magic to make potions."

Julia frowned. "Even so, as long as you follow the directions…"

"Not the way Snape puts it," said Harry darkly. "Like last year when we were making the Forgetfulness Potion, he looked over my shoulder and said: 'are you trying to mangle those roots, Potter, or are you trying to saw your fingers off?'and I was cutting the roots just like the directions told me."

"Did you hone your knife first?" asked Julia.

"Hone my knife?" Harry repeated blankly.

"Every time you use a soft-metal blade, the edge deforms a bit," Julia explained, making a wiggly motion with her hand. "If you don't hone your knife before or after you use it, the edge doesn't stay straight, so you end up tearing the ingredients, not slicing it like you should be."

"Oh," said Harry. "Well, then he made a nasty comment when I was cutting up the blatherous string beans—"

"Was it for the juice or for the beans?"

"The juice."

"It's better to crush beans with the flat of the blade if you're after the juice. The level plane and larger surface area allow you to squeeze out more juices from the fibres."

Harry stared at her a bit.

"Why would Snape think I'm an idiot when I'm stirring the potion like I'm supposed to?"

"Did you stir in the right direction? The recipe wouldn't specify that unless it was important…"

Harry listened with increasing astonishment as Julia gave plausible reasons for every snide remark he received from Snape. He was pretty sure his textbooks didn't explain the difference between simmering and boiling, but apparently the temperature difference between the two states were significant. Nor did the textbook tell him that when you incorporate 'dry' ingredients to a foamy solution, you shouldn't mix them, but fold them in because mixing would collapse the delicate foam structure. Harry didn't know if Snape ever covered this stuff in class; he had better things to do in Potions than listen to Snape. But if Snape did cover it, only someone like Hermione would've picked it up. And if Snape didn't cover it, that meant only one thing.

"You're really good at this," said Harry.

Julia flushed red. "Oh, c'mon…"

"No, really," said Harry. "You have the knack."

Julia glowed, thus confirming Harry's theory she was a lot like Hermione. Hermione thrived in compliments and a job well done, and he was pretty sure Hermione would be hysterical if she didn't do well in school no matter how much study time she poured into it. At least Julia didn't drive everyone nuts while trying to solve her problems.

Julia was in a much brighter mood when they said good bye, despite the fact Harry couldn't answer her question about spells.

"Thank you, Harry. I feel a lot better now," said Julia.

"No problem," said Harry. "Take care."

Harry watched her go down the marble steps. He started heading towards the library when the last visage of her ponytail vanished. Harry typed his latest question into his phone as he walked through the deserted stairways and halls, nursing a theory.

Harry didn't, therefore, have a reason to register any sound other than that of his footsteps. Yet he heard something quite unexpected.

It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breath-taking, ice-cold venom.

"Come … come to me … Let me rip you … tear you … kill you…"

Harry gave a huge jump and searched the halls frantically.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

No one answered. Harry strained his ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound except the patter of rain.

Harry surveyed the empty hall one more time. Then he hurriedly resumed his trek to the library.

-oo00oo-

"Wands?" said Hermione keenly when Harry rejoined her and Ron in the common room carrying A Brief History in Wandlore, the Anatomy of a Wand, and Wands—Do We Really Need Them? "You went to look up on wands?"

"It occurred to me I don't know anything about wands when we need them for most magic," said Harry, tipping the books on the table. "There weren't a lot of books about wands, though, and most had already been checked out."

Hermione looked fascinated as she browsed through the contents. Ron, who was half-way through his Potions essay and grumpy, didn't deign to look up. Harry surreptitiously passed his outline to him and Ron mouthed a fervent 'thanks!' before he resumed scribbling.

"They've all been checked out by Ms. Shin recently," said Hermione, as she checked the back flyleaf of A Brief History in Wandlore where all the names who borrowed the book were listed. "She returned this about a week ago."

"I wonder why she wanted to read them," said Harry.

"Maybe it just caught her eye? She's always reading something when I go for my lessons."

Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now inky black, but inside all looked bright and cheerful. The firelight glowed over the countless squashy armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing homework or, in the case of Fred and George, trying to find out what happened if you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander. Fred had "rescued" the brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard from Care of Magical Creatures class and it was now smouldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people.

Harry was at the point of telling Ron and Hermione about the voice he heard in the halls when the salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting large sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly around the room. The sight of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at Fred and George, the spectacular display of tangerine stars showering from the salamander's mouth, and its escape into the fire, with accompanying explosion, made Harry rethink the idea of telling his friends he heard a disembodied voice in the empty corridors. It was probably just Peeves. The poltergeist was known to sometimes turn himself invisible, sneak up to a person and grab their nose screaming: GOT YOUR CONK! So he just added it to his list of questions:

Dobby house-elf's warning: don't go to hogwarts it's dangerous. why?
wands, wth are they?
I'm hearing voices! (Just Peeves?)
Miss j reading books about wands - why?

"Done!" Ron said, stabbing his quill on his parchment to mark the final full stop. "Okay, let's swap."

Harry took Hermione's, Hermione took Ron's and Ron took Harry's potions essay. They've been doing this for a while now. Hermione wouldn't let them copy, so Harry and Ron used to ask her to read through her essays and got all the right answers that way. But then Hermione cotton in on it, so she refused to do that as well. This was the compromise they reached: they would check each other's homework and make corrections as needed (and whoever got Hermione would share her corrections).

Harry read through Hermione's four feet long composition (actual requirement: two feet and a half).

"You have to fold the crushed spiders into the foaming solution, not mix it."

"What?!" Hermione screeched. She snatched back her essay and checked the paragraph against the textbook. Then she sighed. "Don't be silly, Harry, the book clearly says: mix in the crushed spiders while maintaining foam."

"Okay," said Harry, shrugging. "Just thought folding would let you maintain the foam better."

Hermione snorted. Still, Harry corrected his own essay to say 'fold' rather than 'mix'.

-oo00oo-

Final Notes: Ron's sentiment towards Carl Czerny was mine when I was learning piano as a child. His name was synonymous to torture … him and Hanon. Oh, my childhood. There seems to be a lot of debate on the usefulness of Hanon and Czerny. I think some people can handle repetitive exercises better while others require a more intuitive approach and acquire technique along the way.

A SJ-light chapter this time. Perhaps in the next one we'll see them—in Hogwarts :D