"I thought you would arrive at Hogwarts early, Sherlock."
The kindly, harmless-looking old man was, of course, Hogwarts' headmaster—Dumbledore.
"Take a seat here; in a moment, I'll introduce you to the students."
He ushered Sherlock to the chair on his left.
Only after Sherlock sat beside Dumbledore did he answer the headmaster's first question.
"I came later because I wanted to finish polishing my teaching plan at home, Professor."
When speaking to Dumbledore, he naturally dropped the cold tone he'd used before; the respect in his voice was obvious to anyone listening.
If the original owner ever felt anything special for someone, his diary named only this one old man.
For the wizard hailed as the greatest White Wizard of the twentieth century, "admiration" barely covered what he felt.
Hearing him, Dumbledore said approvingly,
"Thorough preparation will help you settle into your role more quickly."
At this moment, the first-years were still crossing the lake.
Older students, already seated in the Great Hall, chattered noisily with friends they hadn't seen all holiday, while the professors exchanged whispered conversations.
Before the Sorting began, neither the pupils nor the staff were expected to keep quiet.
Dumbledore fixed Sherlock with those bright blue eyes and said with a smile,
"To be honest, I still wasn't sure you were ready to take on the post, Sherlock."
Sherlock adopted an attentive, teach-me posture and let the headmaster continue.
"The last time you came to Hogwarts to apply, I told you that what you lacked wasn't magical knowledge, but the heart of a grown wizard."
"Without inner strength, even the mightiest spells are only for show; I couldn't confidently hand the position to you."
"Yet after Gilderoy Lockhart ran into trouble, I had to question my own judgment."
"You always think I'm all-knowing and all-powerful, yet in choosing professors I, too, can misjudge people—sometimes I'm simply wrong."
He clasped his hands on the table, looking not the least bit pompous.
His voice stayed gentle, as though telling a favoured junior how he'd recently mistaken yogurt for milk and poured it into his coffee.
"So perhaps I demanded too much; strength can grow quickly, but the heart needs more than words to become truly strong."
"Therefore, I believe I should give you a chance."
At last, he revealed the purpose of the conversation.
"The contract Minerva sent you wasn't complete; there's one more clause."
"Hogwarts formally hires you as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for this year only."
"This year will also serve as your probation; when it ends, I'll decide whether to keep you on. If I still feel you're unready, I'll appoint someone else for next year."
Hearing this, Sherlock—whose mind had been idling—couldn't help a silent retort.
Have you no self-awareness, Headmaster Dumbledore?
Who at Hogwarts ever makes it to a second year teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts?
I'm just praying I finish this dangerous year in one piece, and you're talking about maybe replacing me next year?
Planning to interview my ghost after I'm sacked?
Of course, he kept these thoughts to himself.
Dumbledore, after all, had no time to poke around in the messy corners of his mind.
Sherlock's expression turned earnest and sincere.
"I won't disappoint you, Headmaster. Next year, I believe I'll receive Hogwarts' formal offer for a permanent post."
Dumbledore's gaze shifted to the first-years Professor McGonagall was leading in for the Sorting. He spoke softly,
"I hope that, this time next year, you'll be able to tell me you didn't let yourself down."
Their talk ended; the Sorting was about to begin. Everyone fell silent, listening to the tattered hat sing the song that would decide each new student's house.
After his first meeting with Dumbledore, Sherlock felt he'd more or less passed the test.
Even if the kindly old man—judging by their brief chat—were secretly as manipulative as certain movie narrators claimed, he surely couldn't spend every minute peeking into people's thoughts, could he?
Sherlock had felt no discomfort during their talk and sincerely hoped no alien presence had taken a stroll through his mind.
Just as the Sorting began, a middle-aged wizard rose from the staff table and strode from the Hall. Greasy, seaweed-like hair, black robes, a pale, sullen face—he looked for all the world like an oversized bat.
As he passed Sherlock, their eyes met for an instant.
Those eyes were like stagnant water: empty, silent, desolate—mirroring the aura he exuded.
Even more ominous than a Thestral visible only to those who've seen death.
In Sherlock's hazy memories, only one Hogwarts professor matched that description.
Potions Master Severus Snape.
Hero or villain in the original story—he couldn't recall.
After failing to remember, he shook his head. Best to keep dealings with the man to a minimum while in the Castle.
When the Sorting ended and the feast began, the bat-like Snape hurried back.
He bent to whisper to Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall; Sherlock caught the surnames "Potter" and "Weasley."
McGonagall's face darkened with anger; she rose and strode to a small side room.
Three minutes later, Dumbledore—no longer smiling—followed her in.
Sherlock guessed Snape had spotted Harry and Ron arriving in the flying car—hence their grim expressions.
None of it concerned him; he was busy making small talk with Professor Flitwick, the Charms professor.