Hello all! Thanks for taking a peek in at this little story. I'm trying something totally different with this one, so we'll see how it goes. This story is based on the tumblr picture of Sherlock Holmes on the Hogwarts Express, headed out to be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. (original link here originals/ec/6d/ed/ec6ded609571d34b4e2e1b47b00986ff. jpg)I've got a good start on it, but what I'd like to do once I get the introductions out of the way is make it more of a choose your own adventure story. Once I get plot rolling, I want all of you to decide what will happen next! Send me your thoughts, guesses, wants, and you all will shape the story!

He was not what one would consider a "people person." In fact, most people who knew him hated him (either a little bit or a lot). Not that he gave a damn. Most people were far too boring to bother him taking notice of them. This did not exclude children. So why was he on this blasted train (going eighty kilometers per hour, slowing slightly at every curve, thirty one curves in the trip, arrival time in approximately three hours fifteen minutes and eight seconds) headed out to a job that would most assuredly drive him utterly mad?

He'd been bored, that had certainly been part of it. The other incentive had been a favor he owed Taffit. Of course, he hadn't expected the old man to call in that favor this way, but there wasn't anything to be done for it. It wasn't that he disliked children, specifically. They just...disinterested him. So predictable. So ruled by easily calculated and readable motives. And so irrational. Moreso even than the rest of the human race.

His musings were cut short when the door to his compartment cracked open and a pair of eyes peeked inside. They met his bored gaze and a sharp inhale followed. Student. Female. Fifth year. Only child. A scent coiled into the room. Two students. Second also a fifth year. Also female. Hushed whispers, clothing rustling. Their indecision began to grate on his nerves.

"Either enter the compartment and seat yourselves or get away from the door," he drawled icily. Another sharp intake of breath, more hushed whispers, then the door slid open the rest of the way and the young ladies entered. He waved his hand in a sarcastic welcoming manner towards the bench opposite him. The girls, one fair and blonde and the other a fiery red head, glanced at each other then sat.

"Sorry," the redhead mumbled. "The others are full."

"No they're not," he responded casually. Both heads jerked up to him.

"Pardon?"

"Have you a hearing problem? I said, 'no they're not.'" He turned his eyes down to his book even though he'd been ignoring it in favor of staring out the window before. Those damn hushed whispers resumed. What he'd previously assumed to be unintelligible because of distance and volume he now realized was totally incomprehensible even at close range. His eyes narrowed as he tried to place the words. They weren't Latin, German, Welsh, or any other known language. They were spoken rapid fire and each response was given without thought. What the devil were they saying? For a moment, he thought it was a language that had been invented by an author famous in the muggle world, but that wasn't quite right either.

"We looked," the red head insisted, drawing him back to the present.

"There are one hundred seventy compartments on this train, each seating six average sized students. Even factoring in one eighth of the population being above average, there are nine hundred and fifty seats available on the train. The average student body at Hogwarts is 900 students. Of course there aren't simply eight empty compartments, but there are certainly available seats. And a 97% chance that there are even two empty seats beside each other, as you two appear to be traveling together. So your excuse that the other cars are full is simply an a cover. You are obviously," he flicked a glance over them, a thousand things being seen and analyzed and filed away in his mind all at once, "unpopular with your peers, and hence do not wish to be in a compartment with them if it can't be helped. Not to worry, I am hardly your peers and have no interest in slinging insults about your clothing, hair styles, body shape, sexuality or monetary standing. But do try not to be too annoying."

They both stared at him in shock, mouths open slightly. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at them. They were, after all, only children. Perhaps even slightly more interesting than other children- after all, they did speak a language that was unknown to the rest of humanity.

"Who are you?" The red head asked finally. She seemed to be the only one capable of speech.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied. "Professor Holmes, to you."

The post he was taking had once been "cursed." Of course, Sherlock didn't believe that rubbish. There were curses, certainly, his world was full of them. But a succession of failed professors hardly made the post cursed. It only indicated a lack of qualified teachers. For the last five years, the position had been filled by a small rather forgettable man who had recently retired to Bismark with a rather large collection of Cornish Pixies. And so now Sherlock had come in to fill the slot.

He ought to have arrived at the castle nearly a month before the students. He'd brought his belongings as soon as his position had been secured, but then had been called away. Auror Listrade was truly a dolt at times. The cases he needed help on were usually hardly worth Sherlock's time. But this time, it had actually been one to capture his interest. Enough to temporarily stump his massive intellect. Temporarily, but even still. It had only been the day before that the pieces had finally clicked together and he'd led Lestrade to the culprit- a rather nasty wizard with a penchant for obliviating his victims so they had no recollection a crime had even occurred.

So instead of having arrived by more conventional means four weeks before, he was now sitting on the Hogwarts Express and sharing his compartment with two students who seemed to think he was the boogyman. He was tempted to say 'boo' just to see what they would do. But Headmaster Taffit had specifically asked him to try not to alienate all the students and staff on his first day, so Sherlock held his tongue.

The little blonde girl surprised him by speaking for the first time. "The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," she surmised.

"Quite."

"Oh, wow!" The red head looked at him with new respect. "I'm really excited to take your course! There are a few spells I really want to master this year-"

"I highly doubt I'll be teaching the type of spells you are wanting to master," Sherlock interrupted. The red head looked put out.

"How do you know?" she demanded. Sherlock blinked at her lazily. Did she really think he couldn't see it? It was written, quite literally, all over her.

"Because the type of spells you are interested in are far above your year, if not your ability. You've obviously spent a lot of time protecting your fair haired companion and are looking to increase your arsenal of defensive spells. Judging by the way you lean slightly in front of her and the way your wand is gripped, I wouldn't doubt you want a few offensive spells added to your collection as well. Of course, its obvious from the way your friend is holding herself along with the spot she's already worrying on her bottom lip that she's already had to pull you back more than once and will continue to do so throughout the year. I can tell from your robes that your parents are wealthy but inattentive, and I can tell from hers that she hasn't any at all. You've tried to go to your parents about problems but they brushed you off. You've tried to get her to go to other professors to have the harassment stopped but she refuses. Quite correctly, I'm afraid. It would only make the matter worse. Which you've resigned yourself to. You expect quite a hard time this year. And since you've clearly already gone over your proper level in defensive spells, I can assure you that my course will not be teaching any you don't already know. As for offensive, well that would most assuredly get me sacked. So I'm afraid you're out of luck."

Again, they gaped at him. The blonde blanched, blushed quite becomingly, then lowered her head. Her more vocal companion narrowed her eyes and Sherlock could imagine if she were a kettle, there would be steam coming out her ears very shortly.

"Who told you that stuff?" She demanded.

"You did." Before she could interrupt with trite denials, Sherlock went on. "This is what I do. I observe, and deduce. You're quite easy to read. Your plight is written all over you."

"But you're saying you won't teach me?"

"Quite the opposite. I'm certain that you will be in my class. As your professor, I will teach you everything that I am required."

"But nothing more."

"Ah, no." He lowered his eyes to his book again, dismissively.

"You don't care." It was an accusation. Sherlock sighed and looked up once more.

"The muggles have a word for what I am. Sociopath. You could say that empathy is not my area. You've been getting along just fine from what I can see. You both have all your limbs still. Now if you happen to have one removed by your bullies, that you can come to me with and I will handle the situation by all proper protocols." When the red head opened her mouth (obviously to utter some oath at him) Sherlock stopped her with a raised hand. "I assure you that there is nothing your adolescent brain can concoct that I have not already been called. So I suggest you save yourself the detention for insolence and wait until we get to school and you can get in trouble for something much more worthy of your time."

The girl looked as if she might still insult him anyways, but the blonde put a small hand on her leg and squeezed lightly. Her mouth snapped shut and she only glared murderously. There was dead silence in the car for nearly an hour before the blasted whispers started again. Still intrigued by the language they spoke, Sherlock listened intently. He was utterly astounded to realize that even after twenty minutes of listening, he still had no idea what they were saying. There wasn't a language on earth that he couldn't gain at least a basic understanding of with a little practice. So why did this one elude him so? It couldn't be that complicated if children could master it so fluently.

After another ten frustrating minutes, he put down his book and cleared his throat. The girls stopped mid sentence and turned two pairs of emerald green and sapphire blue eyes to him.

"What language are you speaking?" he asked in his most polite voice.

"None of your business," the red head snapped. Her companion looked between Sherlock and her friend, then laid another restraining hand on the girl.

"How about a trade, then?"

When the vocal one refused to reply, the quiet one spoke up again. "What do you mean?" she asked almost suspiciously.

"You tell me what language it is that you're speaking, and I'll teach your hot headed companion a spell."

"What kind of spell?" the hot head in question demanded.

"A repelling spell. Anything thrown at/dumped on/kicked at/flicked toward the person its on will bounce back to whoever sent it towards them. I imagine that could be quite useful to the two of you."

They glanced at each other, obviously intrigued. Sherlock knew before they did that they would take the deal. They whispered animatedly in their language and then turned back to him.

"Deal." The red head offered her hand to shake on it. Sherlock regarded it for a moment. He wasn't a fan of touching. But the child would see it as a sign of closure of their arrangement. Grudgingly, he shook her hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm. He gave her credit for that. "We made it up," she said unceremoniously. "It doesn't have a name."

"Made it up?" Sherlock was surprised in spite of himself. Of course it had occurred to him that the language was made up, but it seemed far too complex for two teenagers to have invented.

"Yeah. Started when we first became friends. Second year. I'd just read this book that had its own language, and we already had our own way of communicating. It just kind of came out of that. We've both got a kind of knack for languages."

"I see." He'd been right about the book, but still, the root of the language escaped him. Interest piqued, he wanted to learn more. "And its safe to assume that you would be unwilling to share this language with anyone?"

They looked at each other, then the red head grinned. "As unwilling as you are to teach me advanced defensive spells."

Sherlock couldn't help the genuine smile that twitched his lips. She was crafty, he'd give her that. Maybe this could be a pleasant distraction from the tedium teaching would certainly present. At least for a short while.

"Let's start with the repelling spell. If you're not a complete idiot, we'll see what happens. By the way, what are your names? I think the other staff would look down on me calling you the Ginger and the Mute."

The girls snickered. It wasn't the reaction he'd expected, and again, Sherlock was intrigued.

"I'm Brogan, and this is Lila."

Sherlock spent the next hour teaching Brogan the spell. Lila didn't take part in the learning process in any hands on way, but her eyes stayed trained on them intently. Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if she was filing each moment away to call up again if needed. Brogan, he found, wasn't quite as stupid as he expected most of his students would be. Of course, that didn't prevent her from getting so frustrated at one point that she threw her wand at his head, but all in all she did quite well.

By the time they reached the castle, she'd practically mastered the spell. Sherlock had conjured up a glass of water and dumped it over her head. Her shoulders got damp, but not soaked. When he'd conjured another glass and tossed it at Lila, Brogan had cast the spell with stunning speed and the blonde hadn't ended up with a drop of water on her.

The train came to its usual grinding halt and the girls gathered up their things.

"You'll think about teaching me more spells? If I teach you our language?" Brogan looked up hopefully at Sherlock. He weighed his desire to know the language against how annoying it would be to teach the girl. Then he gave one brisk nod.

"Provided you keep the lessons to yourself, and provided you don't annoy me too much. You've got yourself a deal."

Brogan grinned. Lila flashed a shy smile, then both girls left the compartment. Sherlock waited until the first mad rush of students had left. Then he gathered his coat and scarf closer about himself and exited. He was a head taller than most everyone in the writhing crowd, which made navigation most convenient. The first years were herded towards the boats while the rest of the students piled into carriages. As Sherlock looked for the least crowded coach to take, he spotted Lila and Brogan. Lila glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to them, then reached out and patted the Threshal's nose.

Once more, Sherlock was slightly surprised. He considered it safe to assume that ninety eight percent of the student body had no idea that the Threshals even existed, let alone could see them. But Lila wasn't just putting out a blind hand, so to speak. It was obvious she could see them plain as day. It occurred to Sherlock to wonder who she'd seen die, but he dismissed it as unimportant. When he noticed a group of rather boisterous boys elbowing each other and pointing at Lila, Sherlock made his way over to the girls. Obviously they were shunned by most of their class mates, so whichever carriage they took would be the least occupied one. Logical. And convenient, as he planned on heading off the boys.

It would be too much work to assign that many detentions.

He reached the girls a good ten steps ahead of the jeering boys. "Might I suggest," he offered lightly, "that if you want to make friends with animals invisible to most people, you wait until you are in a more private setting? If nothing else, to save your friend from having to use that spell quite so soon." Lila glanced around guiltily and noticed the boys. Brogan looked too and gripped her wand.

"I can deal with them," she whispered fiercely. Lila responded by putting a light hand on Brogan's shoulder. They communicated in a curiously wordless manner, and then Brogan relaxed.

"Be that as it may," Sherlock murmured. "Shall we?" He gestured up to the coach. The girls climbed in first, then he followed. A few lingering students looked to the carriage, then skittered off to other ones to cram themselves in. Sherlock couldn't help his smirk. "It seems the extent to which your peers have alienated you two will be quite convenient for me."

Brogan shot him a look that would have cut glass, but Lila giggled. After a moment, Brogan giggled as well. Sherlock only continued to smirk.

Upon arriving at the school, the girls went off to sit at their tables. Were he that kind of man, it might have been a little heart breaking to see them separate. Brogan was a Ravenclaw and Lila obviously a Hufflepuff. Fortunately, Sherlock didn't suffer the defect of sentiment, so he watched them part with only mild curiosity.

After the school had been rebuilt nearly a decade before, an enormous effort had been put into unifying the houses. Mostly, it worked. The student body had been traumatized enough to shake off stigmas about their classmates. During regular meals, students were encouraged to sit wherever they liked, without division. There were no longer common rooms for each specific house. Only general common rooms available for the use of all. But during the sorting ceremony, they were all required to sit with their own houses. As he'd expected, Lila sat by herself at the end of the Hufflepuff table. And also as he expected, Brogan sat on the edge of a quiet group of Ravenclaws. It was obvious they weren't on unfriendly terms, but it was just as obvious that they weren't close either.

Brogan would certainly have more friends if she simply shunned Lila as everyone else did. Though he himself had never seen the point to friends, he wondered why Brogan didn't forsake her companion in favor of popularity. The curiosity lasted long enough for him to walk to the head table and take his seat. There were quite a few new faces among the staff that year, and headmaster Taffet made their introductions during his speech.

"Welcome all, to another year at Hogwarts! We look forward to filling your heads once more, now that summer has sufficiently emptied them! There are several changes this year, as you can see. We've added some new faces. Madam Pomfrey has, alas, retired and gone off. She has left us, however, in the very capable hands of her star student, Molly Hooper. I trust you will all come to know and love Miss Hooper just as dearly as we loved Madam Pomfrey, and treat her with as much respect and deference." He waved down the table and Molly stood for an awkward little curtsey. Sherlock's eyes landed on her briefly, then flicked away. "Also joining us this year is a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Professor Holmes will now have the pleasure of guiding you in the craft and I am sure you will all learn from his extensive knowledge and unique teaching methods." Sherlock grudgingly half stood in acknowledgment. Mutters broke out around the Great Hall. Sherlock ignored them all. "And lastly, Madam Hooch has also left us to pursue a career in private instruction. But perfectly filling the rather large shoes she left will be Dr Watson. He's recently returned from the Minotaur wars in Romania, where his flying expertise saved many a life." The doctor rose with the help of a broom shaped walking stick and gave the crowd of students a salute. "One more thing I'd like to say before I turn the floor over to the Sorting Hat, our caretaker Mrs Hudson has asked me to remind you all that she isn't your housekeeper. Please pick up after yourselves!"

Then he sat, and the Sorting Hat was brought out. It eyed Sherlock angrily, then sang its song. Sherlock could remember with perfect clarity his own sorting nearly thirty years before. The magical hat had been stumped. He wasn't a Gryffindor, certainly, though the hat had made up some nonsense about him being brave in ways he didn't know. And he obviously wasn't a Hufflepuff, despite the hat spouting poppycock about how in the right circumstances he could be fiercely loyal. Rubbish. The problem was that his vast intelligence combined with his cold deduction abilities had him tied for the Ravenclaw brains and the Slytherin cunning. Sherlock had decided that he was more like a Slytherin in that he would pick and choose which knowledge to retain based on what suited his need, rather than the Ravenclaw reverence for all knowledge. But the Sorting Hat had stubbornly insisted that Ravenclaw was a better fit for him. Asinine, since the hat hadn't had an opinion until Sherlock had made his decision. There was always an element of choice (despite the fact that not everyone knew that) so Sherlock couldn't understand the hat's insistence. They'd argued for a good ten minutes. Sherlock had made every persuasive, logical argument he could. He'd even used his budding deduction skills on the hat – which the old scrap of burlap had resented immensely- but in the end, the hat had ignored Sherlock and put him in Ravenclaw.

Once the decision had been made, Sherlock didn't waste any time on regret or resentment. He simply dismissed his house placement. He'd never bothered much with friends, quickly learning that they were fickle and cruel. He hadn't ever cared which house won, hadn't bothered to feel guilty if he lost his house points or pride when he won them.

The hat, however, obviously still held a grudge. Foolish thing. While the hat went about sorting the first years, Sherlock turned his attention to the flying instructor, Dr Watson. He'd made more than a dozen deductions in the three point two seconds the doctor had stood for. Now, he let himself file them back out and ruminate on them. The doctor had obviously been a captain. Despite his doctorate, he'd led an aerial battalion. The doctorate itself said much about the man. He'd been educated in the wizarding world as well as the muggle one. Respected in both. Perhaps even a little feared, though once he'd been a genial man. Now he was stoic, probably a bit bitter about his need for a walking stick. Sherlock could tell instantly that it was all in his head. Even a flighty healer like Miss Hooper would have been able to fix the doctor's leg had it been an actual wound. The limp had more to do with his head than his leg. But that was the doctor's business, not Sherlock's.

As the feast ended (Sherlock had been too distracted by the dozens of bits of information assaulting his mind to eat) the students began to file out to their dormitories. He noticed the shock of copper and the streak of white-blonde gravitate towards each other like magnets. Brogan and Lila were at each other's sides in an instant. Curiosity mildly piqued once more, Sherlock watched to see which direction the girls would go off in. They would each be in different dormitories, but they didn't look like they were preparing to be parted for eight hours. They reached the main stairs. The Ravenclaws were headed up, the Hufflepuffs headed off to the right. The girls' pinkies linked, Brogan winked, then they parted. Lila grinned. Sherlock decided it must be more of their somehow silent communication. But he knew for absolute certain that the two of them had no plans to stay apart for the night.

The staff stayed behind to talk for a few minutes. Sherlock, of course, did not partake in their idle chatter. The incessant prattle was likely to give him a headache. Instead, he stood off to the side and watched. Observed. Deduced. He was not surprised to discover five separate affairs, three rivalries (two of which the other party weren't even aware of) and a multitude of lies- mostly harmless.

He observed with some amusement, Molly Hooper fluttering around Dr Watson. The woman had a ridiculous excess of good intentions and a short supply of self control. She giggled nervously and chattered in a near constant stream. The Doctor, a rather taciturn man, hardly got a word in edgewise and seemed ready to bolt at the first opportunity. He was, however, far too polite to run outright. He nodded to Miss Hooper's ramblings, smiled in a way that didn't look too strained, and tried in vain to excuse himself. Eventually, Professor Moriarty turned and caught Molly's attention and the doctor made his great escape.

There would be times it would be annoying, frustrating, mind numbing, but teaching at Hogwarts would certainly never be boring.

Thoughts, suggestions, comments? What do you want to have happen next?