Meet the Professor
Five minutes before class was to begin. It had been about 45 minutes since Sherlock stupidly lost control of his emotions in the Hall and run out for a smoke to calm his nerves, but that was in the past. Just like Sebastian was. Wilkes. Just like Wilkes was.
Calling someone by their first name was dangerous, Sherlock knew. It tricked you into feeling a connection, feeling endearment towards the person in question. That was why he had selfishly insisted John call him Sherlock since their first day living together, and also why Sherlock couldn’t think of him as “Sebastian”.
Students began pouring into the room. Second years, Gryffindor and Slytherin. Funny, he could count on one hand the amount of classes he’d had with a Gryffindor or a Slytherin; Ravenclaws seemed to be grouped with Hufflepuffs usually. Strange. (That was actually how he had met Lestrade, but that wasn’t important.)
Everyone gawked at the room before coming and sitting down in their seats. Sherlock wasn't surprised, Mrs Hudson and John always had the same reaction when they had seen his experiments lying around too. If he was going to remain at Hogwarts for the rest of the term, his experiments were coming with him.
He had his microscopes in the corner with infected clothing he had found at one of Lestrade’s crime scenes, along with a severed head and multiple fingers nearby with preservation spells placed upon them (the damn amount of magic in Hogwarts prevented something as simple as a refrigerator from working). This was where most eyes went before staring at him in horror and then looking at the ground as they ran to their seats.
The rest of the room was set up fairly well, he felt. The curtains were dark enough to dim the room, but thin enough to let in plenty of light. They had the perfect consistency for his experiments, too. The desks were set up in small groups, allowing group work, but all were facing the front, also permitting individual work.
The architectural structure of the room felt old, ancient, and powerful. Sherlock was sure people like Mycroft or Lestrade would be impressed by it, but it wasn’t anything that Sherlock hadn’t seen before. It was simply magic holding up an ancient building after.
As students came in, he noted all of the note takers (ink already smudged on their dominant hand), the procrastinators (hair ruffled and knitting the ties as they come in), and the ones who don’t pay attention (don’t even have their books). Friends stuck with friends, alerting him to the “pods”. Looks were shot, alerting him to rivals.
But he tried not to pay attention to all of these details, his hard drive didn’t need more useless information inside it. Until the last three walked in.
Two boys and a girl. The girl was an overachiever (doesn't care about her looks from the state of her hair brushed but not truly taken care of holding more books quills and parchment then necessary), and the red haired boy wasn’t exactly the school type (holding exactly two pages of parchment an old quill and only one of the books tie not even knotted extremely interested in the experiments in the corner). But the last boy, he made Sherlock pause.
Clearly this was Harry Potter; the famed black hair, green eyes, scar partially hidden by the hair. Apparently he was being abused at home, but no one else seemed to know about it. (Clearly malnourished not sleeping well clear signs of a glamour most likely to cover bruises whenever someone glances at him straightens his posture giving me a slight glare so distrusting of strangers robe has signs of wear and only goes to above his ankles obviously the one from last year his glasses are cracked and covered in many layers of tape almost too small for his face squinting slightly to see me from across the room).
Well then. Sherlock would bring it to Mycroft’s attention later on, along with any other examples of domestic violence he found today. He was sure he’d find some others, wizard families had an even higher rate of domestic violence than muggles did, shockingly enough. But first…
“Potter!” He called out, striding forward to the boy. Potter froze, expression tired. Obviously he thought that Sherlock was about to start freaking out over who he was. Funny, he didn’t seem like he appreciated his fame. Sherlock made a mental note of that.
Drawing out his wand, Sherlock quickly summoned up a piece of parchment with a note on it. He handed it to Potter, who looked at it in confusion. As he read it, his expression turned from exasperated to nervous and slightly embarrassed.
“Go down to the Hospital Wing and give this to Dr Watson immediately. You’ll be excused from being tardy; I refuse to have someone work in my class without their proper prescription,” Sherlock said, ignoring the stunned expressions on Potter’s friend’s faces. Potter gave a small nod and quickly left the room. Sherlock turned and walked back to the front of the room.
How?
How had Professor Holmes known that his prescription was outdated? Harry couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone to the eye doctor, it was probably when they’d first taken him to get glasses. And even then they’d only gone because his school had written a note.
Harry walked quickly to where the Hospital Wing was, feeling nervous about meeting the new…doctor? Was that what wizards called them? Professor Holmes had called him “Dr Watson”, but Madame Pomfrey hadn’t had that title. Was it just Healer?
By the time he had completed this train of thought, he was right outside the doors.
He sighed, frustrated again as he stared at the doors. Once again, he was outside a pair of floors that he wouldn’t be in front of if his life was just normal for the second time in two days. Yesterday he had been in front of the Great Hall, late because the Portal to the train station wasn’t working. Today he was in front of the Hospital Wing because his glasses were outdated.
Finally, he opened the door and nervously slipped inside. Dr Watson was sitting in a chair, legs crossed, reading a magazine that Harry didn’t recognize. Noticing Harry, he smiled and stood up, placing the magazine on the chair.
“Hello, there. What do you need?” He asked, striding over to where Harry was. Now that he was up close, Harry noticed a silver wedding ring on his left hand. Thinking back, hadn't he noticed one on Professor Holmes’s hand too? Was Ron right?
“Er, Professor Holmes told me to give you this,” Harry muttered, holding out the note. Raising an eyebrow, Dr Watson took it and unfolded it. He read it quietly, but Harry already knew what it said.
Wrong prescription glasses, fix before sending back to class
SH
He felt his face redden as Watson finished reading. He looked up at Harry with a kind smile on his face.
“Right, that’s a very simple fix. Don’t worry, you’ll be out of here in no time,” Watson assured him, drawing out his wand. He reached out and tapped Harry’s glasses, similar to how Hermione had fixed them on the train last year. Except this time, it did more than fix the break.
While the crack on the nose piece did fix, his glasses also seemed to grow slightly, feeling much more comfortable on Harry’s face. And, and…
“Wow,” Harry murmured, looking around in awe. The world was so much clearer! Was this how everyone saw things all the time? This must be why he struggled reading the assignments more than other people seemed to.
“Have your glasses been out of date for a long time?” Watson asked, pocketing his wand. Harry blushed again, looking back at the doctor.
“Er, not, not long. I didn’t even realize that they were outdated.” That was true. The Dursleys had made it seem that once you got glasses, that was what you were stuck with.
Dr Watson nodded.
“Well, don’t worry. This spell will allow your glasses to update and always be right for your eyes for the rest of your life. Most wizards with muggle families don’t realize this spell exists, but it’s very handy. I myself had to do it to my sister’s glasses years ago.” Harry furrowed his brow.
“She isn’t a wizard?”
“No, no, I’m the first and only wizard in my family, actually. Bit of a shock to them when I told them I’d married into an ancient wizarding bloodline,” Dr Watson chuckled, shaking his head. Harry hesitated for a moment before asking,
“Do you mean Professor Holmes? Are you two together?” Dr Watson blinked once before giving Harry a small smile.
“Yes, I do. Sherlock has been my husband for some time now.” Surprise ran through Harry. Obviously, he had been suspicious of that, and clearly the wizarding world was fine with it, but it still felt strange to him to see gay marriage. Before Harry could comment, however, Watson gestured towards the door.
“No matter that, now. Class is about to begin, go on!”
Sherlock stood in front of one of the windows with his hands clasped behind his back, basking in the warmth from the sun. Potter still hadn’t returned, but class had technically begun and it would only be a few more minutes before he was back.
“So, your parents sent you all back to school,” Sherlock called out, bringing the attention of the chattering twelve year olds towards him. Most of them fell silent, although the girl and boy who had been with Potter earlier were still whispering in the back. Clearly wondering why Sherlock had sent him to the Hospital Wing.
He rolled his eyes. Potter was fine. He started walking back to the center of the front of the room.
“As was pointed out during the feast last night, I am not my brother Mycroft Holmes, so please make no comments about the Ministry or “how cool it must be to have a brother like that”!” The last part was said in a mockingly high voice as he waved his hands around. Multiple of the students looked at each other with nervous expressions, and Sherlock rolled his eyes again. He started pacing back and forth.
He suddenly pleasantly surprised to notice that he was spinning his wedding ring around his ring finger with his right hand. He’d been doing that more often, he’d noticed. Not that he was complaining, that is. It was a pleasant reminder that he belonged to John now.
“This class is supposed to teach you how to defend yourselves against the dark arts. There are many types of Dark Arts; creatures, spells, rituals, battle techniques. Last year, as you were first years, you were supposed to be taught about the basics of what made something considered “dark” vs “light” vs “neither”. Probably inefficiently, too,” Sherlock muttered in the last part.
Suddenly the door opened, and all of the students turned around to see who was entering. Didn’t know why they bothered, though. Obviously it was Potter.
Sure enough, the dark skinned boy quickly entered the room and shut the door, chewing his lip nervously. His glasses fit his face better, the lenses were thicker, and he didn’t seem to squint as much anymore. Good, maybe he’d be able to see well enough to pass the class now.
Spotting the two he came with, he scurried over to them and sat at their table, taking his books out of his bag as he did so. Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock continued, while still watching the trio whisper in the back. Honestly, it wasn’t that interesting. The boy needed his glasses to be fixed, that was all.
“In your second year, I am to teach you about dark wizards themselves. Next year will be creatures, then spells, then battle techniques, then rituals. But before we begin learning about dark wizards, we’re going to work on your observation skills.”
“Observation?” Someone called out skeptically. Sherlock looked over at them with a smirk on his face before turning his head to fully see them. It was a girl in a Slytherin tie, smirking up at him.
“Is that why you assigned us a muggle book that sounds as if it belongs in Divination?” She tittered, causing those around her to snicker. Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. This was why he wasn’t excited for this. Smart-arse children who thought they were being clever.
“Divination is a complete waste of time and effort, please do not associate me with such a thing. Crystal balls, the “Inner Eye”, ooh, ahh,” Sherlock scoffed. “That class takes years to teach you things I learned as a small child.” Shocked whispers exploded throughout the room.
“If you are quite finished whispering about me,” he called out, getting annoyed again. The whispers died down, and Sherlock ruffled his hair frustratedly.
“As I was saying, my job is to help you defend yourselves. The best way to defend yourself against a threat is to know that it is there. That’s what I’m going to be teaching you! At least most of you came into the classroom grossly unobservant, and by the end of term…” Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he looked at the ceiling, thinking of the likelihood that they’d actually learn to use their brain.
“No, most of you will still leave grossly unobservant,” he ignored the offended and shocked sounds, “but hopefully you will be more observant.”
“How about something useful?” Someone else called out. This one was a boy, also Slytherin. Pale skin, blue eyes. Looked just like his father. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.
“Using your eyes and mind alone can help you determine someone’s life story. That’s useful, as you put it.”
Malfoy scoffed, rolling his eyes.
“For instance,” Sherlock turned away, smirking.
“Can anyone tell me anything about me simply from observing?” The snickers and whispers quieted down from the challenge. He raised his eyebrows and then lifted his arms as if presenting himself. He slowly walked to one side of the room, looking directly into the student’s eyes one at a time.
“Hm? Anything at all?”
“It’s impossible,” he heard someone on the other side of the class mutter. Putting his arms down, Sherlock sighed and shook his head.
“Simple, actually. Shall I give you a demonstration?”
The class cried out an affirmation together. Immediately Sherlock began looking around.
His eyes landed on a girl with straight black hair who was looking at him nervously.
“You have a new cat and it’s not adjusting to the pet life well, and neither are you, unfortunately it was a gift so you feel like you can’t get rid of it.” As she gasped in surprise, he began pointing at differing parts of her, explaining.
“You have long scratches on your arm and a cut on the hem of your sleeve. It’s a new pet that isn’t used to being treated like a pet and has claws. Obviously it’s one of the Hogwarts approved pets because you have fur on your uniform and your nose is slightly runny from the allergy you have to its fur. The only animal you are allowed to have at Hogwarts that has both claws and fur is a cat. You would have had the cat for some time since you are a second year, at least a few days before coming to Hogwarts, but your parents haven’t gotten rid of it. Why? It must have been a gift and you’re trying to appease someone.”
Immediately he spotted a boy with dark brown hair and eyes and pointed at him, running up an aisle to get closer to him.
“Your father received a higher position and a raise at work.”
“How-“
“Your clothes are all starched and new, very nice quality. You keep pulling at it as if you aren’t used to it. People raised in old money become used to the uncomfortableness of starch clothing, just ask Mr Malfoy. You’re sitting straighter than you need to be because you’re afraid of ruining the clothing, again pointing out that it’s new. The pin on your shirt is also brand new and extremely expensive. Could be a birthday present except you have a ring with the exact same crest on it; also new and also extremely expensive. All probably came from one person, which means it wasn’t a birthday present, and your father is trying to show off the fact that he got a raise.”
One more will probably be enough to finish showing off efficiently.
Another boy, sitting nearby Potter’s table with round cheeks and who obviously owned a toad. Sherlock placed his hands on his desk, leaning over him.
“Please use your dominant hand when writing in my class, there is no point pretending to be right handed when you are left, and please try to avoid tripping on your way out.”
The boy shifted, who knows why he had such a strange expression on his face, as Sherlock continued.
“Ink smudges on your left hand in the way that happens when left-handed people write, but it’s small compared to the calluses on your right hand that clearly indicate that is what you usually write with. Calluses on the right hand but ink smudges on the left, proves that you’re left handed but for some reason, probably pressure from guardian figures to be perfect, you’re trying to train your body to be right handed. Your shoes are new, couldn’t be more than a few days old, and yet the top of the toes are scuffed in a very particular way, as if they catch on things. Usual for people who are prone to clumsy falls, so that along with the stumbling you did earlier points to the fact that you are indeed prone to being clumsy.”
Spinning around to walk back to the center of the room, Sherlock smirked happily. The familiar rush he got when pointing out his deductions as quickly as possible made his heart pound, and he had to breathe a little heavier from how quickly he had spoken when deducting. He could almost hear John’s berating tone in his head;
“Show off.”
A show off indeed, Sherlock agreed.
The class was silent, shocked into finally being completely quiet. There was a mixture of expression of fear, shock, and awe meeting Sherlock as he turned around to face his students again, hands clasped behind his back.
“Now that I’ve shown off a little and explained how it is very much possible, does anyone want to try? Hm?” He raised an eyebrow when he was met with more silence.
Really? No one wanted to even attempt to actually use their minds for once? Sometimes he agreed with Mycroft in his description of fellow humans as “goldfish”, and this was clearly one of those times.
“How about you, Mr Malfoy?” He tilted his head towards the blonde boy, who’s cheeks flushed. “Obviously you think you’re greater than your fellow classmates because your father thinks he’s Fudge’s right hand man and he comes from old money, but really your father isn’t man enough to tell his wife he believes he’s going to be fired soon. Do you want to be “man enough” and try to tell me anything about myself?”
Malfoy’s mouth dropped. His larger friends next to him stared at him in shock, and Sherlock heard some giggles coming from the Gryffindor side of the room. Sherlock raised his eyebrows expectantly, but after a moment, Malfoy sunk into himself and muttered,
“I can’t.”
Sherlock scoffed and stepped away from Malfoy’s desk. His eyes roamed, seeing if anyone would. Subconsciously, he noticed that he was fidgeting with his ring again. After a moment, a hand caught his eye.
The left handed boy was timidly raising his hand, and Sherlock’s heart leapt, hoping that someone would be able to do it.
“Yes, Mr…”
“Longbottom, sir,” the boy whispered. “N-Neville Longbottom.”
Sherlock snickered, causing Longbottom to turn red, before gesturing him to continue. The boy swallowed and hesitated before answering. Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently.
“Come on, boy! Do you have something or not?” Merlin’s beard, Sherlock was going to need his violin soon.
“N-nicotine patches.” That was all Longbottom said, and yet it stopped Sherlock short. His eyes bored directly into Longbottom’s eyes intently for a few minutes, noting the nervousness and fear in his eyes, before feeling a large smile creep across his face.
“Explain,” Sherlock demanded, excitement flooding him. Longbottom blinked nervously.
“W-when you talked to Harry earlier you smelled like cigarette smoke, and when you leaned on my desk earlier. It’s exactly like how my Gran smells when she smokes one. If you still smelled strongly of the smoke this far into the class period, then you must have smoked the cigarette fairly recently, and the tar and nicotine juice in your fingertips also prove that.” With every word, Longbottom sat up straighter, becoming more confident. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, surprised at how well the boy was doing.
“The coloring on your fingers isn’t a stain, so normally I would say that you’re new to smoking. However, if you were new to it and smoked so recently, you should have a hoarse throat, or maybe a cough. You have neither, in fact you’ve been able to talk very quickly without struggling for breath. That means you’re used to the drug and smoke. The only two ways you would be used to it but not have nicotine stains would be if you wore gloves nearly every time you smoked, which isn’t likely, or if you got the drug into your body a different way. The most likely way for you to do that is n-nicotine patches. They’re a muggle invention, but I overheard Harry talking behind me about how your husband is muggleborn.”
Potter and his friends turned bright red, and the class erupted in whispers at the words “husband” and “muggleborn”. Sherlock smirked.
Learn something in the Hospital Wing, did he?
“S-so, it’s very likely that you’d use a muggle invention,” Longbottom finished.
Sherlock blinked once in surprise before laughing and jumping excitedly.
“THANK YOU! Someone who can actually use his eyes! Oh, it’s Christmas.” Sherlock ran over to Longbottom’s desk again, crouching to get on his level. He ignored everyone’s shocked expressions as they watched the exchange.
“Mr Longbottom, you have so much potential in my classroom, oh, thank you, thank you for not being so dull.” Longbottom looked shocked, but Sherlock spotted a small smile on his lips as Sherlock turned around, going back to the front excitedly. Turning back around, Sherlock unbuttoned the sleeve of his shirt and pulled it up, revealing the patch.
“Mr Longbottom is right, indeed. Nicotine patches, smoking every once in a while. Now,” he lowered his sleeve once more.
“Clearly the rest of you have much to learn, so everyone pull out The Art of Observing, Mr Weasley please take one of the extras from the back cabinet, and turn to page 13.”
There was a flurry of activity as everyone hurried to take their books out. Mr Weasley flushed as red as his hair as he stood and walked to the cabinet that Sherlock pointed to. The cabinet was directly next to Sherlock’s experiments, and he’d be lying if he claimed not to be slightly entertained by watching Mr Weasley try to open the cabinet without getting close to the severed fingers.
———
Neville and the others spent a lot of the class period taking notes on the chapter “Spotting the Unspotted”, but Neville had a hard time focusing on it.
Professor Holmes was not like any adult Neville had ever met. He noticed so much, and clearly thought he was on a higher intellectual scale than everyone (maybe he was), but Neville couldn’t help but smile as he thought about him.
Even now, Professor Holmes was sitting in his green chair near the front, just playing his violin. Neville was sure that people like Hermione were annoyed by the background music, but Neville found it soothing.
Professor Holmes acted…aloof, (was that the word?), as if he didn’t care for anyone, and yet he had taken care of Harry’s glasses the moment he saw him. He treated everyone with an equal amount of disdain, unlike people like Professor Snape. He didn’t think himself better than them because his brother worked in the Ministry, like Malfoy. He also made sure that Neville used his dominant hand.
That was one of the best things about him, in Neville’s opinion. Neville’s Gran was insistent that Neville was as good as or better than his parents. Unfortunately, that included being right handed, although he was born left handed.
He struggled to write with his right hand, had earned many comments about his penmanship from both Professor Snape and Professor McGonnagal, but he tried. He really tried.
But Professor Holmes had noticed and wanted him to write with his left hand. It felt freeing to write with his left hand, although it did cramp a little from lack of use.
And the way he had talked about Neville when Neville pointed out how he used patches… No adult had ever talked about Neville like that before, except for Professor Sprout in Herbology. It hadn’t come as easily for him as it clearly came for Professor Holmes, but after some time he was able to put together the clues. And being good at something besides plants, plus being acknowledged for it, it felt amazing.
Soon class was over, and everyone began packing their books, quills, and parchment away. The music cut out quickly as Sherlock stood, placing the violin and bow back on his desk.
“Finish your notes and study the chapter for homework,” Sherlock called out as students began to leave.
As Neville stood up and grabbed his bag, he immediately knew he was going to fall. As always, it felt like it happened in slow motion and he couldn’t stop it.
He felt his foot catch on the leg of a nearby table midstep, and immediately began to fall. Throwing his hands out, he prepared to catch himself.
But he never landed on the ground.
Quickly, a thin hand grabbed his arm painfully tight and yanked him up to standing, helping him. No one had ever helped him before, who did this time?
Turning, Neville was shocked to see Professor Holmes standing over him, holding his arm. His expression looked bored as he nodded back towards the door.
“Try not to die going down the stairs, Mr Longbottom.” With that, he let go and walked back to his desk. Blinking in surprise, Neville quickly left the room.
It wasn’t until a few hours later that he realized that Professor Holmes had been standing by his desk in the front of the room when Neville had fallen. Neville’s desk was near the back of the room.
Professor Holmes would have had to run all the way back to him in order to stop him from falling.