To Begin
Harry couldn’t believe it. Classes hadn't even started yet, and he had already chaos with Ron, this time on a national level. How he and Ron had managed to not even lose points for revealing the magical world to muggles, he would never know and would always thank Professor McGonnagal for.
As of right now, however, he was only worrying about getting to the Great Hall with Ron in time to eat anything. He was starving, not having even eaten lunch. Professor McGonnagal had said that they’d missed the Sorting, but that was alright. The only person he’d have cared for was possibly Ginny, but he already knew her House: Gryffindor.
Ron and Harry skidded to a halt in front of the large doors, looking up at the intricate decorations. Embarrassment suddenly washed over Harry at the thought of walking into the Hall in the middle of the Feast, with everyone staring at him and Ron. He looked over to his best friend, noting the red ears.
“Er, should we…” Ron gestured towards the doors. Harry nodded silently. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open. Not enough to be a dramatic entrance, but everyone still turned to stare at the pair.
Harry and Ron both ducked their heads and hurried over to the end of the Gryffindor table where there was some room for them to sit. Whispers echoed through the Hall that Harry tried and failed to ignore.
“Blimey! Ron! Harry! Where’ve you been?” Dean asked, staring with wide eyes as the two of them sat down. Ron immediately began piling food on his plate and biting into a drumstick. Harry put some meat pies into his own plate before turning back to Dean.
“We missed the train, is all. Professor McGonnagal was just helping us figure some things out,” he said before picking up a pie and taking a bite out of it. It wasn’t technically lying, after all. Both of those things were true.
“A bit different eating without Hermione, isn’t it?” Ron asked, elbowing Harry. Harry hummed in agreement before looking down the table to try to find her. He spotted her chatting with Lavender Brown, and pointed her out to Ron.
“I think she fancies you, Ron,” Dean commented, grinning. Ron’s ears turned bright red.
“Which one?” He demanded. Dean simply smiled wider and turned back to his food. Ron turned to look at Harry with wide eyes. Harry shrugged.
“Oh, where’s the new Defence teacher?” He asked, realizing that he hadn’t seen them yet. The older girl that he was sitting next to looked up at the question.
“The new staff members are up there, sitting next to Professor Flitwick and Snape,” she told Harry, pointing up at the staff table.
“Members?” He clarified, leaning forward to get a better view.
There were indeed new members, two of them in fact. Two men sitting next to each other. Neither were eating, probably had finished already.
One was a tall man with black curls that made his pale skin appear even whiter, and sharp cheekbones that gave him a very menacing appearance. He wore a black overcoat, and was slouching in his chair, leg obviously bouncing in an anxious way. His light eyes were flicking around all over the Hall as if he was taking in every detail possible.
The man next to him was a shorter man with light hair who had a comforting look about him. He was wearing a suit with the jacket unbuttoned, surprising Harry with how muggle his outfit was. He was facing the side and was engaged in an excited conversation with Professor Flitwick. His left hand was out and holding the black haired man’s hand tightly with their fingers entwined.
“Why are there two new staff members, do you think?” Harry asked. “We only need a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, I thought.” The girl shrugged.
“Dumbledore will probably announce it soon. I’m surprised he hasn’t yet, being as far into the Feast as we are.”
“Think they’re together?” Ron cut in as the older girl turned away from Harry. Harry furrowed his brow at the question and looked at him curiously.
“Is that allowed? Two men to be together?”
Ron scoffed, taken aback.
“Why wouldn’t it be? It’s just love.” A look of shock passed over Ron’s face. “Do muggles not allow it?”
Harry fell silent. He didn’t know if muggles allowed it or not, all he knew was that Uncle Vernon didn’t allow it. He had grown up believing that homophobic relationships were practically of the Devil. Was that not true?
Well, he had also been taught that magic was probably worse than the Devil, so…
“I don’t know. Maybe. My uncle doesn’t approve, that’s for sure. So wizards approve? Is it normal?” Ron shrugged.
“You won’t find that many gay relationships around, but it’s pretty much normalized in the wizarding world.”
Just then, Dumbledore stood up in his chair at the head of the Great Hall. Professor McGonnagal tapped on her glass, bringing everyone’s attention to the front.
“Welcome, staff and students alike, to another school year!” He called. Everyone burst into applause around the Hall. (Except for the black haired man, Harry noticed. He just looked annoyed that the blond man wasn't holding his hand anymore, even though he grabbed his hand again immediately after.)
“I am pleased to announce the two new additions to our staff this year. Madame Pomfrey is taking a year off this school term, and so the Hospital Wing will be run this year by Dr Watson.” Dumbledore held his hand out to the side, directing everyone’s attention to the new pair sitting down. As everyone clapped, Flitwick signaled to the blond man to stand, which he did.
“Someone else running the Hospital Wing?” Ron muttered.
“I wonder why she’s taking a break this year,” Harry whispered back.
As the clapping died down, the other man reached up and pulled Dr Watson down by his sleeve.
“And, as we were already aware, we needed a new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor this year, so it is my pleasure to welcome Professor Holmes!”
Again, clapping erupted around the Hall. Dr Watson nudged Professor Holmes, who wasn't standing. After a second nudge, Holmes rolled his eyes and stood up for a few seconds before plopping back down. He raised his eyebrows at Watson as if to ask “happy?”
Soon the applause died down, but before Dumbledore could say anything else, Percy Weasley cried out,
“Holmes? As in Mycroft Holmes?”
Whispers spread along the tables at the question.
“Who?” Harry asked Ron. Ron shrugged.
“Some Ministry member that works for Fudge. I dunno, guess Percy’s heard of him before.”
Harry turned back to look at Holmes. He was mildly surprised to see a very disgruntled look on his face, and he seemed to be muttering angrily under his breath. Watson, on the other hand, was laughing his head off.
“Don’t be dull, of course not. I would never work for something as boring as the Ministry. I am Sherlock Holmes; I’m sure some of you have read about me in Dr Watson’s blog in the Daily Prophet.” Holmes talked quicker than Harry had anticipated, and with an annoyed glance at Watson that again surprised Harry. Looking down the table, he saw Hermione talking with Lavender again, looking very excited. She must have read about him before, not surprising.
As Dumbledore finished his welcome speech, Harry found himself staring at Holmes. He was slouching again with his fingers tapping incessantly. He didn’t seem to be happy to be here, and yet here he was. Was it because Watson was employed here? Or was he the reason that Dobby thought it wasn’t safe for Harry to be here?
———
“Sherlock?” John’s voice cut through Sherlock’s sleep, bringing him back to consciousness. Light was streaming into the room, and John wasn’t lying in bed next to him. He had obviously slept in again.
“Get up, Sherlock! You have a class to teach, you are a professor now!” John sounded exasperated, and he lightly hit Sherlock’s shoulder in an attempt to wake him up. Sherlock simply groaned and rolled over onto his back.
Opening his eyes and sitting up, he furrowed his brow in confusion as he took in the room. This wasn’t their home in London. Ah, that’s right. They were sharing a room close to the Hospital Wing together now that Mycroft had given John that position.
“Must I?” He muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly before finally glancing at John.
John was combing his hair back in front of a mirror, back towards Sherlock, giving him a lovely view. Sitting in bed watching John seemed a highly productive way to start the day, Sherlock decided. He drew up his knees to his chest and held them, simply staring at his husband. John smirked in the mirror as he caught Sherlock’s eye.
“Yes, you need to get up, and yes, you need to go to class. All of them!” John ordered, turning around and pointing the comb at Sherlock. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“But it will be so boring, John. Children,” he scoffed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as John hurried over to their dresser.
“Always trying to make friends with each other, always trying to outsmart one another. Never fully grasping the principles laid so clearly before them!” John chucked some of Sherlock’s clothes at him, stopping his indignant rant. Sherlock flailed a little trying to catch them, causing John to laugh.
“Well, then maybe you shouldn’t have taken the job!” John grinned. Sherlock rolled his eyes and fell backwards onto the bed, fully intending to lay there until John made him get up.
“We received a letter from Mrs Hudson today. Apparently she misses being able to come visit us at home as much as she used to. It’s on the bedside table on my side. I’m going to the feast, and if you aren’t there in ten minutes I’m going to hide your nicotine patches for a week.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up at the threat, shock evident on his face. John shrugged, not even attempting to hide his smirk, before leaving the room.
Ten minutes
After the door was fully closed, Sherlock stood up quickly, examining the clothes John had apparently chosen for his first day teaching.
Black buttoned shirt with matching dress pants. John thought that this was an important day. His gray blue scarf. John knew the comfort it gave him. His favorite overcoat. A perfectly put together outfit, as always.
Nine minutes
Sherlock dressed quickly. He could feel the desire for nicotine rising, earlier than normal. His body must have taken a hint from John’s threat, and was craving the drug more intensely than normal this morning. As soon as he was dressed he turned to the drawer where he kept the nicotine patches, slapping one on as quickly as possible.
Eight minutes
He sighed in relief at the sensation of the nicotine entering his blood stream, easing the tension in his body. Once he had calmed down, he turned to find the letter that Mrs Hudson had sent.
Seven minutes
There were few people in the world that Sherlock would ever admit to himself that he vaguely cared for.
John was top of the list, being his husband and all. And yes, Sherlock was aware that he cared for him enough to classify as love, just in case anyone was confused.
Mycroft came next, however much Sherlock tried to dismiss it. He and his brother had their differences, their differing opinions and methods, and periodic insult matches, but he thought he might have cared for Mycroft. Enough not to kill him when he was being particularly annoying, in any case.
Lestrade was definitely on the list somewhere; a classmate familiar should be in any case. They had been in the same year, although Lestrade had been in Hufflepuff. He had been the closest thing to a friend Sherlock had had during his school years besides… No. Sherlock wasn't going to think about him right now.
But on her own little list of Sherlock’s was Mrs Hudson. She was a squib who would let younger Sherlock stay the night when the fights between his parents and when Mycroft’s arrogance grew too much for Sherlock’s hard drive. When it came out that her (mudblood) husband was a Death Eater and abusing her, Sherlock had put away his pride and asked Mycroft for help putting him away. It hadn’t taken long for Sherlock to find devastating evidence of the man’s crimes, and Mycroft had done the honors of bringing the Dementor’s for a Kiss. Mrs Hudson was eternally grateful.
The letter was resting on the side table by John’s side of the bed, just as he had said it would be. He had taken the paper out and laid it in the opened envelope for Sherlock to more easily access it.
Sherlock picked it up and analyzed it. Cheap paper, not the usual kind. She’s losing money. The pen is steady, she is calm. The ink changes part way through, the pen died while writing.
Six minutes
Dear Sherlock and John,
Oh, I was excited to hear about your new positions in Hogwarts, even though I’ve never personally attended the school. I’ve heard all about it from others, though. Anyways, have you heard that Harry Potter is a student there? You must tell me what he’s like when you see him, either of you!
I miss seeing you two around as much as I used to, even after you moved out after the wedding. First chance you get, I expect both of you to come down and visit me for some tea and biscuits! (Don’t worry, I’ll have just the type you like, Sherlock. You won’t have an excuse not to drink it!)
I do hope you two enjoy your time at Hogwarts, and wish to hear all about it soon!
Martha Hudson
Sherlock gave a small smile at the bit about the tea. He did enjoy her tea, even if he thought John knew his preferences better. He would have to write soon, let her know about the boy.
Harry Potter. He was a problem in Sherlock’s mind; he couldn’t figure him out. How he had survived as an infant. Where he had been living. How everyone was stupid enough to believe that Black was the culprit. Sherlock was determined to figure it out, ease his racing mind as soon as possible. Today’s class, then.
Five minutes
Pocketing his wand and magnifying glass, Sherlock left the room, locking the door behind him. It took a little less than 4 minutes to arrive at the Great Hall, specifically the side door open for staff members, and less than a minute to walk to his seat by John. If he walked as quickly as normal, he should make it on time to protect his nicotine patches.
He had already prepped the classroom for his class last night, being bored enough to actually do such a thing, before John had suggested an early bedtime. That had been exciting, as usual. John’s commanding voice coming from between Sherlock’s legs…
Anyhow, he knew he had about 45 minutes until the students were released to go to their classes, and then ten more minutes until class began. And nothing to preoccupy him except for the feast.
Sherlock sighed frustratedly at the thought as he reached the side door.
One minute
Quickly he slipped inside, immediately spotting John’s golden hair beside both Professor McGonnagal and an empty chair, which was next to Sherlock’s previous Head of House Professor Flitwick.
John looked up and smiled as Sherlock slumped into the chair.
“Well, well, well,” John laughed, looking at his watch. “Nine minutes and 23 seconds!”
“Of course I was on time, when am I not on time?” Sherlock asked, looking out towards the Hall. Most of the students were comparing schedules and conferring with each other, very few people were eating. Merlin’s beard, he’d slept in late. He’d need to work on that.
“Uh, any time Mycroft asks you to go somewhere?” A small smirk appeared on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.
“When am I not on time when you ask for it?” He amended. John simply chuckled, but Sherlock barely heard it as he grabbed the cup of tea that John had placed in front of his chair.
“I put six spoonfuls of sugar in it,” John told him before laughing. “Earned me some strange looks from the other professors!”
Gratitude filled Sherlock with the information even as he shrugged, not caring for their opinions. He might not be aware of many social cues, but he knew that a man of his age could not ask for that much sugar in public without being highly judged and discredited.
That being said, what was the point of caring if others didn’t approve of what you ate? Everyone had differing taste buds and slightly different chemical amounts in their brains, meaning everyone tasted and preferred foods differently. It didn’t make sense why someone should put away what they enjoyed because someone else’s mind didn’t personally like it.
Sherlock had enough “business” respect that he would drink his tea with as many spoonfuls of sugar as he would damn well please, thank you very much. People like Lestrade listened to him, Mrs Hudson and the Queen of England liked him, John loved him, who cared how he drank his tea?
Sherlock sipped at his tea, feeling his body relax at the sugar mixed with the warm liquid hitting his tongue. He was always impressed how John was able to tell how many spoonfuls Sherlock needed on a daily basis, and he did not disappoint today. Yes, six spoonfuls was the perfect amount for this morning.
“Did you read the letter?” John asked, taking a bite of a forkful of sausage. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, still examining the floating candles as he replied.
“Of course I did. By the way, remind me later, we’ll need to send over some money to help prevent her financial issues from becoming worse.” John turned to face him, brow furrowed in confusion.
“Issues? She never said anything about having money issues, did she?” Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes.
“Honestly, John, did you even look at the paper? It was horrible quality, cheap, bought from the market downtown that she only goes to if she really thinks that she needs to save money for more important things such as bills. But she’s also inviting us to her flat for tea meaning it isn’t quite a problem yet. How do I know? Well, it’s quite simple, dear Watson. She isn’t embarrassed by the state of her flat so she’s able to still take care of it and she’s willing to buy the tea I like that she wouldn’t have lying around the house, therefore, she is willing to splurge enough for the issue to not be gigantic yet. Therefore, she is beginning to notice that her financial situation is starting to struggle but is too embarrassed to tell us, and we should discreetly give her some funds.”
The moment he finished explaining what was so painfully obvious to him, he took another sip out of his tea cup, secretly revelling in the awed look John was sending his way. One would think that after all these years Sherlock would be used to it by now, used to the admiration John seemed to hold for him. He didn’t think he ever would.
“Amazing!” John said, shaking his head.
“It is, isn’t it?” Flitwick asked on the other side of Sherlock, causing John to jump. Sherlock looked down at the smaller man, a small sense of pride filling him. Flitwick had always had a good word for Sherlock when he had been at school, and he appreciated the man’s approval.
Flitwick smiled up at the detective.
“You know, he’s always been like this,” he told John.
“Yes, I’ve heard,” John informed him.
“Always using his mind to discover what was kept hidden from others. He was always one of my most brilliant students,” Flitwick praised, patting Sherlock’s hand. A warm feeling filled Sherlock, who gave the little man a small smile.
“Thank you, professor,” he murmured. Flitwick nodded once before turning leaning forward to look at John. Sherlock indulged him and leaned back, allowing Flitwick a better view of Sherlock’s husband. He began to drink the tea faster, actually swallowing instead of sipping.
John didn’t realize the examination at first, eyebrows raising in confusion as he finally noticed the professor staring at him. Sherlock smirked into his cup as Flitwick nodded, satisfied.
“I like him, Mr Holmes. I’m so happy that you found someone that’s good for you! I must say, I never really approved of you being with Mr Wilkes.”
Sherlock choked on the tea, spilling some down his front.
“Sherlock!” John immediately began pounding on Sherlock’s back clearing his airway. Sherlock gasped for air, but his mind wasn’t at the table at the moment. It was down with the students at the Ravenclaw table, years ago, sitting with another boy with black hair as everyone glared at Sherlock.
“You imbecile! Why do you always have to ruin every meal?” The boy glared at Sherlock, making his heart feel as if it had been genuinely cut by the glare. Not Sebastian. Sebastian couldn’t hate him too. Please, no.
“Wilkes.” John’s voice was low as it brought Sherlock back to the present. Sherlock looked down at his plate, fidgeting with a napkin. Now he truly wasn’t hungry.
“Sebastian Wilkes? The man from the bank who said he…” Here John hesitated, but Sherlock heard the last part loud and clear. Who said he hated you.
“Yes, Sebastian Wilkes was Mr Sherlock’s beau when they attended Hogwarts all those years ago. Never truly liked him, you seem much more supportive and more of what Mr Holmes needs,” Flitwick continued, seemingly unaware of Sherlock’s panic next to him. Sherlock clenched his fists painfully tight, trying to repress all of the insults, all of the memories.
Freak. Weirdo. Loser. Monster. Psychopath. Idiot. Crazy. We all hated him.
———
John felt angry. Murderously angry. And not because Sherlock didn’t tell him about Wilkes, that wasn't his business at the time, and wasn’t relevant later. No, he was angry because the memory of his meeting Wilkes now had a new light to it.
“We were at uni together, and this guy here had a trick he used to do.”
“It’s not a trick.”
“He could look at you and tell your whole life story.”
“Yes, I’ve seen him do it.”
“Put the wind up everybody, we hated it.”
At this, Sherlock’s expression stilled. At the time, John had felt sorry for Sherlock, but hadn't thought much of his reaction. Now, looking back, he recognized Sherlock’s signs of feeling down. Feeling rejected. John knew that of all things, Sherlock hated to be rejected by people he respected.
Wilkes had been his lover in school, which John knew from experience meant that Sherlock would take every word and glance to heart. And he had talked about Sherlock’s gift with such disdain, had looked at him with such an arrogant smirk, had sent such awful words his way.
If that was when they had been separate for possibly years, how badly had Wilkes hurt Sherlock when they were together?
Currently, Sherlock was staring down at his cup, a napkin clenched tightly in his fists. His expression was the same that he had had when Wilkes had said that “we all hated him.” The expression that made John’s fingers itch for his gun. Or his wand. Either one was fine, as long as it was aimed at Wilke’s head.
“Sherlock? Are you hungry?” John asked quietly, trying to change the subject.
Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head in response. John decided to take that as a victory, small as it was.
“Alright then, well, let’s be off,” he said as cheerfully as he could, giving a farewell nod to Professor Flitwick who returned it.
John put his hand lightly on Sherlock’s hand, and tried to hide his grin as Sherlock slowly unclenched the fist, entwining his fingers between John’s. Soon John was leading Sherlock out of the Hall, away from the prying eyes Sherlock couldn’t have missed.
The moment the door shut, Sherlock blinked and seemed to come out of it. He shrugged and shook his head, letting go of John’s hand to ruffle his hair, a nervous habit of his. John stood and watched, waiting for him to say something.
“I’m fine,” Sherlock said stiffly. John tilted his head.
“Really? Funny, you don’t seem-”
“I said I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped, anger lacing his tone. John fell silent, concerned as he watched Sherlock storm away, posture stiff and definitely not fine.
Would this job remind Sherlock of Wilkes? Was it a good idea for them to come here?