A/N: Annnnnnd we're jumping ahead a little again. Last time we were in the summer following Year 5, now we're in the summer following Year 6- so basically, this chapter is their final year at Hogwarts. This chapter was so long, it's going to have to be in 4 parts- sorry about that! But I had a lot of fun with this one, especially describing Sherlock's rooms :)
Chapter Four Part 1/4
July, 1969
John had hoped to slip out without them noticing. As it was, it was evident that he had absolutely failed. When he came out of the shop, they were all waiting for him at the door.
"What are you doing here?" He sighed.
The four of them had over the summer been staying at Sherlock's house. For various reasons to do with his parents being away, they hadn't been able that year to holiday at Jim's, and finally, Sherlock had said his house had plenty of room and they had fixed upon two weeks in July to spend there; although for John there was hardly any point. He hadn't wanted to reject this unusual show of hospitality from his friend, however, and wanted to be in on the fun. Besides which, in all this time, he had never set foot inside the main building of the Holmes household, which had turned out to be the reverse of Jim's house- what appeared from outside to be an ordinary, if large, modern house was underneath all the illusion charms and spells revealed to be an ancient gothic mansion; if you looked down from a window at the outer walls, you could see them as they truly were, all crumbling brickwork and the odd gargoyle. John had always suspected it, and now he knew for sure. They had amused themselves during their stay thoroughly exploring the house, which was a maze of secret rooms and hidden passages, although Sherlock knew them all, and taking in some of the muggle leisure activities round the city. They had already been to see Easy Rider twice at the cinema because Jim really enjoyed it, although Sherlock and Molly thought little of it. Nor had Sherlock really grasped the idea of the cinema, still under the impression that it was an elaborate painting and the figures were acting out the tale, more able to accept the idea of moving and talking portraits happening live than it being pre-recorded elsewhere. John had given up on correcting him. Jim had wanted to go a third time, but in the end it was decided he and Molly would go on their own, because they had a hard enough time trying to keep Sherlock still and quiet the first two times. He kept shouting at the film to hurry up through the boring bits and the only reason they weren't kicked out was that Sherlock was amusing himself by doing it in a variety of voices. Other than that, there wasn't much to do. They wandered around the area and took it easy, sometimes doing daytrips on the train or hanging around at John's house. Still, at least they were all together.
At this precise second, however, John would have been glad to be rid of them. He had popped out to the corner shop, and clearly they had all decided to follow him.
"We're investigating your suspicious behaviour." Sherlock informed him. "You've been going to the shop every morning."
"That's because we always need something."
"You're a terrible liar, John. No imagination."
This, John had to admit, was true. Ironically though, he wasn't a bad writer. He had scored particularly high marks on the creative writing section of his English O-Level paper by writing out an adventure had by three boys and a girl at a school for young witches and wizards. If the healer thing didn't work out, perhaps he would go back to the muggle world and make his living as a writer.
"I'm not a liar." John answered. "Or don't you want these after all?"
"I'll take them." Sherlock replied, taking the packet of Smarties and pocketing them. "But the fact remains, you find a reason to come here every day."
"No I don't!"
"Yes you do," Jim said, nodding at the window. "And there it is." A pretty blonde girl about their age was removing something from the window display, before turning around and returning to the till, out of sight.
"John." Molly said, caught between disapproval and amusement. John, knowing he was rumbled, sighed deeply.
"Alright, alright, you got me. Just leave her alone."
His request was in vain, Sherlock had already gone into the shop for a closer look, Jim following, pulling Molly by the hand. Knowing they were going to embarrass him, John hurried in after them, hoping to prevent the inevitable. Too late. Sherlock and Jim were both blatantly staring at her. She smiled and came over.
"Hello again, John. Did you forget something?"
"No… my friends just wanted to come in and look round the shop." John said, hoping they would take the hint and start looking at the shelves instead of at her. They didn't. Not that she was doing much different, staring openly at Sherlock, smiling at him.
"Who's your friend?" She asked.
"Oh, this is Sherlock Holmes." John said. "Sherlock, this is Mary Morstan. She lives a few doors down from me."
"Holmes?" She said. "Oh, then you're the one that lives in the huge house on the hill?"
"Yes." Sherlock answered.
"Well… it's lovely to meet you."
John watched her and saw the way she was looking at him, and left. The others trooped out after him. He punched Sherlock on the shoulder.
"Sherlock! I was actually getting somewhere with her too!"
"What did I do?"
"You came in the shop with your stupid pretty face and your stupid curly hair and your stupid bags of money."
"It's not like I asked for her attention."
"Don't take it too hard, John." Molly tried, patting him on the back. "It's just the usual pattern."
"What usual pattern?" Jim asked.
"It's what the girls say at school." She shrugged. "Sherlock's the more attractive one, but John's the one you'd actually like to date."
"Wait, what does that make me?" Jim asked, while John was still trying to work out how to take this.
"Nothing." Molly said, without thinking, then she covered her mouth, horrified. "Wait! I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that!"
"Are you saying I'm nothing?" Jim growled playfully, encircling her waist and pulling her close to him, making her blush. "I'll show you who's nothing."
"Jim, no, not in front of-" Too late, he was kissing her. Feeling uncomfortable, John turned away. Molly and Jim had been dating for almost a full year now, but it still wasn't something he wanted to see.
"Jim, put her down." Sherlock said. "This is boring. Let's head back."
They did so.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooo
In spite of the fact they were staying at his house, they didn't see much of Mycroft. He would usually join them for dinner, which he liked to have at exactly seven o'clock each evening, prepared by their devoted house elf Twitchy; who, it seemed, had firmly accepted Mycroft as the head of the family ever since the death of his father six years before. Apparently she had also been Sherlock's only childhood playmate and as in general she did whatever Sherlock told her to, John felt it went a long way to explain Sherlock's overbearing personality. She was the only servant they had and, it seemed, was a combination of housekeeper, cook and nanny. Somehow the house was immaculate, the food was delicious, and whenever Sherlock did anything expressly forbidden by Mycroft, it was a source of great hilarity to John and Jim to see him being told off by a little bobble-headed creature that barely reached the height of his knees. John had been a little concerned about Twitchy's apparent slavery at first, but like the Hogwarts house elves, she loved her work and her masters and she was treated with almost as much respect as it was possible for the Holmes boys to show anyone. Still, Mycroft had told her seven o'clock was dinner time, and woe betide anyone who was late. On their second or third day they had arrived quarter of an hour late and were treated to a good few minutes of remonstrations about how "Young Master Sherlock and his friends must show more respect to Mr Mycroft" before Sherlock finally told her to shut up and bring their food, which she did. John felt he finally understood something about Sherlock's childhood.
After their seven o'clock dinner, Mycroft would usually withdraw to his rooms at the back of the house and leave them to it, going to bed early and leaving early for the Ministry next morning. John occasionally met him in the early hours before he went for his customary run, but only if he managed to avoid Twitchy, who hated the idea of him running on an empty stomach and would always delay him by trying to bully him into eating before he went out. John thought she would get on with his mother.
He woke up one morning with his leg twinging. There were several possible reasons for this. One was his old injury, from the day of the Quidditch trials. It had been perfectly healed, of course, but the memory of pain lingered sometimes if he had been dreaming. It also seemed to have linked itself in somehow to the magical extra sense he had always had, ever since he was a child. Now, if he sensed danger, his leg would usually ache in anticipation. This morning, however, it was probably just stiff because he had been sleeping on a settee in Sherlock's sitting room with his leg at an awkward angle pinned to the chair by Jim, who had fallen asleep sitting upright on the floor. Molly was on the settee too, her legs curled up on the cushion and her head on the arm of the seat. Sherlock was absent. Clearly he had left them to sleep and gone to his bedroom.
Given the size of the Holmes Mansion, John supposed he couldn't really be surprised that Sherlock didn't only have his own room, but an entire suite. As a child he had just had one room, his bedroom, but at some point during their second year Mycroft had moved all his things before he came home for the Easter holidays. Sherlock had not been at all happy. However, in time he had adjusted and come to appreciate the space. What it seemed had happened was that Mycroft had taken over his father's old rooms- his mother, after all, being there so rarely that she didn't need them- leaving Sherlock to move into those traditionally occupied by the Holmes family heir. John wasn't sure he would like to live with such strict traditions, but there was no denying Sherlock was lucky, having a bedroom, bathroom, sitting room and study marked for his sole use. John hadn't quite realised just how obscenely rich Sherlock and Mycroft were until that point. Each of them had a guest room to themselves, with huge, soft, four poster beds and solid antique furniture. The mansion was in every way old fashioned, decorated only with carved walls and old portraits and everywhere the colours associated with a long line of Slytherin house. Sherlock's rooms alone were a reprieve from green and into blue. The sitting room was full of jammed book cases, ancient arm chairs and settees, with tables and lamps at helpful intervals, giving it more the appearance of a library than anything else; and indeed, a lot of the books seemed to be ones that Sherlock had decided to keep on extremely long term loan from the school. The main coffee table was in the middle of the room, low and solidly carved, the only thing in the house that bore the crest of Ravenclaw; which apparently Mycroft had acquired for him after his sorting. The table, in spite of its antique years and quality bore several marks of recent misuse, burns and scratches, and Sherlock finally admitted this was the usual site of his chemistry and potions sets. Molly asked why he hadn't cleaned the marks off as there were several magical cleaners that could do it, but Sherlock seemed affronted at the very idea. The marks on the table, he said, were his records; when he saw them, he could remember the experiment that made them and the results. Twitchy, he said, touched the table at her peril. In fact, he said, she was banned from tidying his rooms in general as he could never find anything afterwards; but he had revoked it temporarily to allow her to tidy just his sitting area before his friends came.
Seeing his bedroom, John couldn't imagine that it was that bad. Sherlock's room was incredibly neat, with everything in its exact place. In fact there wasn't much in there; just a large canopied bed with the Holmes' family crest in the headboard, a side table, a wardrobe and a tall free standing mirror. In one corner there was another armchair with a lamp mounted into the wall beside it, above a shelf also filled with books and papers, clearly Sherlock's current reading material. There was very little of the personal in the room, except for his school scarf knotted around the handles of the wardrobe, a water and food bowl along with a nesting box and a scattering of toys left on the floor for Agatha, and to John's great surprise, a framed picture of the four of them that Molly had given them all a copy of for Christmas in the fourth year sitting in the exact middle of the bedside table. It was all far more organised and more tidy than his own bedroom at home, and he felt rather ashamed of himself in comparison, if this was what was considered messy in the Holmes household.
Then he ventured into Sherlock's study and realised Sherlock just confined all his mess to one place. Disorder reigned from floor to ceiling- literally, as the ceiling was barely visible under a teeming, moving mass of fluttering notes. These were notes Sherlock had written and enchanted to fly out of the way, keeping them forever and able to summon them down instantly by calling their subject if he needed to refresh his memory. Now they cycled round like a flock of birds, so densely packed that they lowered the ceiling by several inches. Here there were even more book cases than in the sitting room, all jam packed with books wedged on in a jumble, notes and pages of reference material slotted in around them. There was a large desk by the window, piled high with books and paper and parchment, a skull precariously topping the largest of the stacks; bottles of potions and chemicals pushed in amongst them, along with ink and parchment, broken quills, stolen biros and ordinary paper. There was a small space cleared in the front and centre of the desk where things had been roughly pushed aside, presumably where he actually did things, though right now it seemed to be taken up with a half-built Airfix model, which he said he worked on when he was stuck and it would help him think. Even a small kit would take him months to complete. Sherlock didn't get stuck very often.
The mess wasn't limited to the desk. There were books everywhere, strewn across the floor on their own or in stacks, each one adorned with random objects, abandoned cardigans and jackets, the various organs from an anatomical model, a framed skeleton of a giant rat, a chair leg with the Holmes crest carved into it and the end sharpened to a point, a jar of pickled eggs, an alarm clock, and a stick of butter in a dish with some herbs; all of them, apparently, to do with his experiments. There was on the opposite side of the room to the desk some arm chairs and another low table, the table completely covered with cauldrons and test tubes, magnifying glass and microscope, burnt out matches and scraps of paper, vials of potions, jars of powders, an array of surgical knives. Sherlock said his researches were finally coming to an end, and had been able to produce from underneath a replica model of a sailing ship a full list of his findings, which itemised the chemical make up of a magical ingredient, and which parts were helpful and which parts weren't, as well as how to distil them into a purer form. John was impressed; he had never really quite realised his friend's mucking about could have such a serious use. He could revolutionise potions making, just by making use of what the muggles had learnt about Science. John had handed the list back with great care and respect and Sherlock had filed it away underneath his violin, which lay perched on top of a pile of newspapers on one of the armchairs. The bow was on top of the mantelpiece above the fireplace, propped up between an exotic looking slipper and a pile of the enchanted notes, pinned down in place by an old fashioned dagger, still fluttering woefully. John, feeling somehow bad for them, had tugged the knife out and set them free before replacing the knife in its deep groove. After that he had resolved for the sake of his future health not to go in there again, and had left, restricting himself entirely to spending time in Sherlock's sitting room after that.
It was this, therefore, that had presumably ended up with them all sleeping in there before his awakening that particular morning. They had been talking long into the night about not very much, although Jim had been uncharacteristically quiet, and had nodded off first. Molly had fallen asleep after him, and John had decided to let them nap a while before waking them up to go to bed. He himself had carried on talking to Sherlock and must, he supposed, have finally fallen asleep himself. Now the discomfort of his position had caused him to wake up even earlier than usual, but he decided to go for his run now rather than pointlessly going back to sleep. He carefully pulled his leg out from behind Jim, who didn't so much as stir, and rubbed it a little to get the blood circulating before standing and putting his weight on it, trying to ignore the pins and needles. Being earlier than usual, he was able to get down to the entrance hall of the mansion and put his trainers on without being observed by Twitchy, and stepped out into the summer dawn. It was not quite six, but the sun was already almost up, and the air was warm. It was going to be another hot day. He decided to extend his jogging route that morning and rather than heading straight down into town went the other way, circling round the edge of the hill Sherlock's house lay at the top of before running up one side and down the other, thus coming back to where he had started and proceeding on his usual route. As always he had his front door keys with him and slipped quietly into his own house to visit the other early riser in his family.
Harriet, as he had expected, was already awake and standing up in her cot, supporting herself on the bars, when he came in. She was always ready and waiting for him like that, making John suspect that something of his magical sixth sense was present in her, though, at a little over a year old, she had yet to show any other signs. She smiled when she saw her brother, but, losing her balance, fell down with a bump.
"Up." She demanded pitifully, reaching out to him with chubby arms. John dropped the bars on the cot and obliged, scooping her up in his arms. Not in the least tired, she immediately started beating her little hands against his chest, giggling to herself.
"Are you beating me up?" John asked. "You little bully." Ruffling her hair, leaving it standing stiffly at odd angles, he took a firm grip on her hands, and dangled her close to the floor, leaving her squealing in delight as her feet paddled in the air. At that point his mother came in, still in her dressing gown, and yawning said she was going to do breakfast now. John took his sister up again, carrying her down the stairs, before at last yielding to her repeated pleas of "Down, walk" and, keeping her hands in his in order to steady her, let her toddle into the kitchen on her own feet. He couldn't believe how fast she was growing.
"I wish you wouldn't get her so over excited in the mornings, John." His mother sighed, as she put a cup of tea in front of him and set about cooking breakfast for her husband, who, from the sounds of the tuneless singing coming from the bathroom, was in his customary shower. "She won't sit still for hours."
This was probably true. His little sister had proved herself to be an excitable child and, in John's opinion, grew more adorable every day now she was out of the awkward crying and pooping stage. For this reason, John wanted to make the most of his time at home and stopped in every day to see his little sister, even if Jim mocked him for his brotherly pride. He hung around for a while, drinking his tea and chatting to his mother, staying long enough to say good morning to his step father before going on his way.
"Don't forget about tonight." His mother cautioned him, seeing him to the door.
"How could I?" John asked, kissing her cheek. "We'll be here."
And they would be, whether Sherlock protested his disinterest or not. It wasn't every night that you could turn on your television and see man landing on the moon.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooo
John ran back up the road and got back to Sherlock's soon after seven, expecting to find Mycroft having just left for work and his friends still asleep. He was on his way to the kitchen, aiming for a glass of water and some fruit to tide him over until his friends decided to rouse themselves and breakfast with him, but before he reached the stairs he heard Mycroft's unmistakable tones saying his name. John turned, thinking he was being called, but behind through the partially open door, he saw Sherlock pacing, and interrupting his brother in the furious whisper of those wanting to shout without being overheard.
"People like John!" He said, outraged. "What is that supposed to mean?!"
"You know what I mean." Mycroft answered irritably. "The muggle-born."
"They are no different to us!"
"I know that, of course, it's just a question of pedigree-"
"Don't be a fool, Mycroft!"
"What would you have me do, Sherlock? Certain compromises must be made-"
"Why compromise when it's wrong? Just because half the Ministry are falling for it, I thought you had more sense. If you exclude the new muggle borns from Hogwarts, how long will it be until you restrict them from the Ministry, or from the professions, or-"
"What would you have me do, Sherlock? If the Ministers are for it, even secretly, then-!"
"You know what you can do, you just won't-!"
"My role is not as all powerful as you seem to think! They will trust me over facts and figures, but this is-!"
"Rubbish! You could stand up to them and you know it!"
"Sherlock, nobody is about to let them go off on some militant blood purifying regime, but simply failing to inform muggle born children about our world-"
"Oh, and having a lot of uncontrolled magic in the world, that sounds like a great plan!"
"Obviously we would need to put systems in place-"
"You have got to stop sitting on the fence, Mycroft!"
Silence fell after this uncharacteristic argument. John leant against the wall next to the door, his heart pounding. He couldn't make sense of what he was hearing and knew he shouldn't be listening, but he had never heard Sherlock lose his temper so completely before; and Mycroft had never seemed to be phased by anything but he was definitely ruffled now. Finally Sherlock spoke again.
"You're too used to thinking in the abstract, Mycroft." He said, quietly. "You're thinking in terms of numbers and finances and politics and reputations. You know one compromise will lead to another."
"Of course I know that." Mycroft replied. "I also know, little brother, that if they continue to gain support, war is almost inevitable. However, if we give a little, sooth them, placate them, it might tail off on its own, or at least buy us more time…"
"This isn't some investment, Mycroft, this isn't some ministerial department feeling ignored or misused! You are talking about people. You are talking about John."
"Don't be absurd, Sherlock. It wouldn't affect those already in our world-"
"Liar!"
"-yet." Mycroft sighed deeply.
"Mycroft. Listen to me. John Watson is a good man. Better than both of us put together. I have friends staying with us, Mycroft, for goodness sake! Me! Do you think any of that would have happened without John?!"
"Nobody is undermining John's worthiness, Sherlock, but it's just an unfortunate question of the arbitrary drawing of lines-"
"But it's wrong, Mycroft."
There was a deep sigh and silence again as Mycroft considered.
"So, essentially, you would have me join this group I've been overlooking these past weeks, and by rights should be arresting?"
"Yes!"
"You've spent too much time with Gryffindors." Mycroft said coldly. "You've become far too moral. But very well, I shall do as you ask."
"Because you know I'm right?"
"Just so. I've spent too much time with your Gryffindors too." He sighed. "There is a condition though, Sherlock. Once the Order is properly established it will need you too, and that energy of yours."
"Of course. I'll come with you-"
"No."
"What?"
"You, dear boy, are going to complete your education."
"Mycroft!"
"No arguing, Sherlock. If you think I've spent the last six years wading through angry letters from your teachers just to see you drop out now, you have another think coming. Besides, perhaps this will have all blown over by then, and the danger will have passed."
"So you're making me go back to Hogwarts, even when you know I could help deal with this scum much faster, because you want to keep me safe?" Sherlock sounded disgusted, as if 'safe' was a filthy word.
"Yes. Now, I'm late for work."
Realising he had been witness to what was possibly the most caring and open conversation the brothers had ever had, and he didn't have time to get back upstairs, John sprinted back to the front door and stood there putting his running shoes down as if he had just gotten in and taken them off. Mycroft looked suspicious but made no comment, bidding him good morning and excusing himself, heading to the grand fire place at the end of the entrance hall, took up his umbrella, put on his gentlemanly gloves and touched the clock over the mantelpiece that was his permanent personal portkey to a hidden corner in a tube station close to the Ministry of Magic, where he would merge with the other commuters heading for the streets above, just another office worker.
Sherlock emerged from the side room a moment later, looking cross.
"What's wrong?" John asked him.
"Mycroft is a pompous idiot." Sherlock answered. "But what's new? Let's go and wake the others, the sun has come out and I want to see if Agatha and Ringo can get any higher up the apple tree."
"Agatha's too old for this sort of thing, you know."
"I know, that's why I told Molly to bring Ringo."
John laughed but couldn't tell him off, not after Sherlock had been saying nice things about him. The topic of the conversation- the possibility of cutting off the muggle borns- naturally concerned him, but what could he do about it? If Sherlock knew he had been eavesdropping, he would be too angry to tell John anything. At any rate, there didn't seem to be too much to worry about. Nothing was definite yet and Mycroft seemed to be on the case. John was reassured and decided to put it out of his mind as best as he could, and concentrate on trying to stir up any interest at all in Sherlock about the moon landing.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooo
The next incident that John would really remember in the future from that summer occurred right at the end of it, when he was in Diagon Alley with Sherlock, Mycroft, his mother and Harriet, getting school supplies. Mycroft hadn't accompanied them for a number of years, but having business of his own in Diagon Alley had come along and, as such, was there when John got into difficulties.
He was in the apothecary, buying refills for his potions ingredients, with Harriet's folded pushchair tucked under one arm so his mother could carry the infant in the tight confines of the shop. Sherlock had instructed Mycroft to get the things he needed for school and was busying himself with more advanced ingredients needed for his research, talking to the shop manager about ordering something in. Sensing he was going to take some time, John went up to the till to be served by the assistant, a young man he vaguely recognised as having been a year or two above him at Hogwarts, though which house he had been in John couldn't venture to guess. Smiling in recognition, he put his purchases down on the counter.
"I'm not serving you." The assistant said.
"I'm sorry?"
"I don't serve Mudbloods."
John could have walked away from that, he really could have done. He had heard the term before, of course, had it thrown at him more than once in the school corridors. It had more or less lost its effect now. John was popular enough that he was in the main left alone, and if anyone called him that, there were enough people to get upset on his behalf that the insult no longer hurt him. Sherlock, Jim and Molly were always more upset by the term than he was; Jim's revenges had landed him in detention more than once during the third and fourth years, even though he had gotten into the habit recently of using the term jokingly himself. At any rate, John could honestly have let it go, and just walked out of the shop. In fact, he turned to do just that, but the shop assistant wasn't done yet.
"Don't show your face here again, Mudblood. Especially not with your filthy Muggle mother and her grotesque little puppy."
John had heard enough. He didn't even really have time to process the insult properly, to ponder how he had chosen to join this world and the trouble in it, whereas his mother and sister were just innocents, he didn't think about what he was trying to imply about his family before the anger was upon him and he knew he couldn't let it pass. He prepared to take a swing at the assistant, only to find his punch blocked by Mycroft's umbrella.
"Now, John, settle down." He said, with a slight cold smile. "Violence is beneath you." He turned to the shop assistant. "Is there a problem?"
"Nothing that need concern you, Mr Holmes, sir." The assistant said petulantly.
"Ah, but it does concern me." Mycroft answered. "Because it sounded like you just insulted my friend and this dear lady."
"Your friend is muggle-born, sir."
"Yes, I'm well aware of that, but I rather think his disadvantaged circumstances deserve our pity rather than our condemnation, don't you?"
John couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at that one. Mycroft, it seemed, while being appalled by racism towards the muggle borns was a full believer in it being a matter of social class.
"Never the less," Mycroft continued. "This young man is very talented and I will not have him treated with disrespect. Is that understood?"
"Why? What are you going to do?"
"The same thing I did to your brother." Mycroft smiled. "It was very unfortunate that his career should have ended so prematurely."
"…fine, I'll serve him."
"First, you will apologise to John and to this worthy lady here."
The shop assistant, glaring daggers but clearly not brave enough to disobey, did so.
"Good." Mycroft said. "Now then, we will take our custom elsewhere."
With that, he swept out of the shop, leaving the others to follow. John didn't say anything to Mycroft, not because he wasn't grateful, but because he sensed some deep anger simmering beneath the surface. Mycroft remained in a bad mood the rest of the day, though he very graciously put John's mother's arm through his own and insisted on escorting her until he had to leave them.
Looking on, John felt reassured. Pompous he may be, and undoubtedly a snob, but Mycroft seemed firmly on the side of the muggle-borns.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooo
They were nearly an hour into their journey on the Hogwarts Express that September before they were all together in their usual compartment right at the far end of the train. Sherlock, naturally, had gone to skulk in his customary seat straight away but John, Molly and Jim had been helping the tiny first years move their trunks and find seats, after which Jim had excused himself to go and greet some friends from his house and was gone for some time. When they were finally all together again, watching Ringo trying to entice his irritated mother to play on the floor, Sherlock began to tell them about his research paper, which was apparently almost ready; he just had to write up his findings ready to be presented. He didn't sound thrilled at the prospect and was thinking of giving it up; or was hoping, John suspected, that if he said he was going to, they would volunteer to write it for hm. Before any of them broke, however, they were interrupted. There was a tap on the door to their compartment and a moment later it was slid open. River Waters was standing there, looking glamorous as usual. John wasn't convinced her long red hair had been cut once the entire time they had been at Hogwarts and it fell in loose curls down past her slim hips. John had been distracted by it in Care of Magical Creatures more than once, and had once or twice had the good opportunity to be partnered with River to do the practicals, where he had found that if he made her laugh, she would toss her head back and her hair would ripple down its whole length with her uncontrollable laughter. As such, when she asked if she could have a private word with him, John wasn't going to say no.
"What's up?" He asked, shutting the door to the compartment behind him. "Did you have a good summer?"
"It's my birthday, John."
"Oh, really? Happy birthday."
"Thanks." She moved closer to him, putting her hand out to touch his elbow. "Do you know what that means?"
"Hmm, well." He wanted to tell her he couldn't think with her standing so close to him. "You must be the oldest in the year."
She laughed prettily. "It means I've been of age for a whole year, John." She was moving much closer to him. "It means, for a whole year, I've been legally an adult."
John didn't have time to reply as it was at that point that she put her hands on his chest, pushed him back into the door and kissed him enthusiastically. John was surprised, but pleasantly so. River was, after all, very pretty and he finally had an excuse to do what he had always wanted to and play with her beautiful hair. On the other hand, this was a little out of nowhere and he wasn't entirely sure it was honourable to be kissing a girl he wasn't dating. Still, she seemed to be enjoying it, so it couldn't be too wrong, could it?
The problem was, his head was resting against the glass of the door and John could hear every word his friends were saying, even distracted as he was.
"Oh!" Molly said. "She's kissing John!"
"Looks like he's kissing her to me." Jim answered.
"I don't know, he looks like he can't make up his mind whether he should carry on or not."
"Is she pretty?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes, very."
"He'll carry on."
Sherlock didn't like it. This didn't surprise John very much; Sherlock had been difficult enough when Jim and Molly had started dating and sometimes wanted time alone together. The ideas that John might spend significant lengths of time away from them, or that River would join them sometimes, were equally abhorrent to him. According to Molly, Sherlock was trying to be polite, but just never managed to succeed. At first River tried too, returning his obvious hostility with friendliness, but finally, things came to breaking point.
They were at breakfast. Sherlock hadn't come for several days, probably to avoid River, but that day he came. After a few moments, he pulled Agatha out of his seemingly bottomless pocket and put her down on the table, letting her wander over to the platter of bacon and eat contentedly.
"Is that a ferret?" River asked.
"Yes, this is Agatha." John said, sensing her disquiet. "What's wrong? Don't you like ferrets?"
"No, that's not it, I love animals." She said. "I just don't think you should spoil them so much. Anyway, bacon probably isn't good for her and it probably isn't hygienic to have her on the table."
Sherlock looked livid and John decided it would be prudent to hasten River away at that point. She didn't join them for meals again, the two of them deciding it would be easier all round if they ate separately, or John occasionally went over to the Hufflepuff table; but mostly spending time together in the evenings or in the breaks, once they had finished eating. As far as girlfriends went, River was incredibly understanding and low maintenance, quite content if they didn't spend any great length of time together for a few days because John was with his friends, or studying, or at Quidditch practice. In that sense, they lived very separate lives; nobody could think of them as a couple, they just taking some quiet time now and then to talk and laugh and mess around and kiss. Quite a lot of kissing, as it turned out River was both eager and adventurous. John found in spite of the massive work load and the added pressure of being determined to take the Quidditch cup for Gryffindor before he left, he was happier than ever. He hated to think that they would be leaving Hogwarts forever soon, and always felt slightly guilty that he wasn't spending enough time with his friends.
The thing was, they were all busy too. For John, it was Quidditch; for Molly, she was studying harder than ever, determined to get good grades so she would be accepted to work at St Mungos, the major wizard hospital; for Sherlock it was the final vital stages of his research, preparing to present it in just a few months' time; and for Jim it was the problem of being too popular. He had always had friends other than the four of them, but it was only this year that he had started to excuse himself during breaks or lunchtimes to go and talk to them. He never took Molly on these jaunts with him. John wondered if Jim was starting to drift apart from them a little, but his only real problem with it was his neglect of Molly. She however assured John she didn't mind, saying Jim was doing it in part to give her time to study. John supposed all this was just a natural part of growing up and becoming adults. All in all, he was pretty content as the first term rushed past at a hundred miles an hour. He was immensely glad his mother hadn't insisted him on taking A-levels this year like he had been made to do O-levels in his OWL year. There was simply no way he could have done it, the work load for NEWT was almost unbearable. They had discussed it briefly last year, but his mother had accepted his judgement that he was more likely to end up living his working life out in the wizard world. He still hoped to become a healer, in spite of the extra training he would need after Hogwarts. Seeing Molly working so hard always made him feel slightly guilty, like he should be doing more too- but Gryffindor still hadn't taken the Quidditch cup; it was their last chance and with Moran now acting as captain, it was a very good one.
It was at a Saturday practise at the beginning of October that John saw two things that left him baffled. They were having a practise match of a kind, their chasers going against their keeper, their seeker giving the snitch a five minute head start and then going after it, and he and Moran trying to keep their chasers from scoring. To avoid accidentally injuring any of their players, they were using practise bludgers that Sherlock had invented on an idle afternoon the previous year, simply compacted balls of dried mud, compressed enough so that the size and weight was equivalent to that of a bludger, enchanted so they could be hit but would painlessly explode on impact with a player. The Gryffindor team had been so pleased with his gift that they had made sure that none of the disgruntled first and second years complained about his presence in their common room. Which was probably why Sherlock had done it. John had just nailed Moritz in the back of the hand with one, knocking the quaffle out of his hands, and, proud of the accuracy of his shot, couldn't help glancing over at the stands. River had accompanied him down to the pitch that morning and had been sitting knitting as she watched. He wanted to know if she had seen his triumph. It quickly became obvious that she hadn't. She was too busy enthusiastically kissing a Ravenclaw boy from the year below.
John found that he wasn't so much angry as surprised. It was true he was seriously considering tossing his bat at the guy's head, but even that was more resentment than anger. Just then Moran's pass to him hit him on the shoulder, exploding dry soil all down the side of his robes, and his team mates laughed. Deciding not to make a scene and glad that none of his team mates seemed to have noticed River's behaviour, John put his mind back in the game as much as he could, glancing back at his now, he suspected, ex-girlfriend and was relieved to see that the Ravenclaw had gone.
When the practise ended, he landed softly on the turf and bid his team mates to go on ahead, waiting until they had all disappeared towards the changing rooms before going over to River, who smiled at his approach, finished her row, and then laid her knitting aside to speak to him.
"John, you were great." She said.
"Thanks." He twisted his broom in his hands and then laid it against the seat along with his bat. "What was that?"
"What was what?"
"With the Ravenclaw guy?"
"Oh, gosh, sorry, he's on the Quidditch team too, isn't he? I forgot all about that. Well don't worry, he only stopped in for a minute, I don't think he saw anything."
"No." John said quietly. "Probably not, when he was kissing you the whole time."
"Oh, I know, he's nowhere near as sweet about it as you are. He rushes it." She patted John's arm comfortingly. John stared at her and for a moment she looked confused, and then her hands flew to her mouth in horror. "Oh, John, you didn't know?!"
"No. What didn't I know?"
"Oh, John." She looked absolutely aghast. "I'm so, so, sorry. I would never- well, I thought you knew. The others all knew, I never thought for a second-"
"Others?" John asked. "How many others?"
"It varies. Three, right now." She chewed her lip, horrified.
"Right. So you have four boyfriends."
"No! No, oh, John, you poor thing, I should have realised you misunderstood… if I had, then I swear-"
"Misunderstood? Right. But, you see, River, normally when a girl snogs you on a regular basis you sort of assume she's your girlfriend."
"But that's the problem!" She said, sounding exasperated. "Relationships at our age are so restrictive! We're just a bag full of adolescence and rampaging hormones, it's pointless to deny it. What we should be focusing on is building emotional connections with friends and family and just indulging the physical until it settles down! That's why I don't date!"
There was a slight, awkward pause.
"John, I promise you, I thought you felt the same way. I mean, you never actually asked me out and I never said I was your girlfriend, so I thought… I feel awful, John, really. I'm so sorry."
There was another awkward pause.
"Right. Okay." John stood up. "Well, in that case, I think it's best if we break up." He nodded. "Not that you thought we were dating. But still."
"I get it." She said. "No more kissing."
"I didn't say that." John muttered. River was very pretty. And kissing her was good fun. She smiled and leant towards him. John went to kiss her, but then finally, his morality won out and he pushed her away, gently. "Better not." He said.
"Alright." She answered. "Bye, John."
"See you, River."
He left, heading for the changing rooms. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but after a minute simply concluded there was nothing more to be thought about it. They had been at cross purposes, but River hadn't deliberately deceived him. She was just weird. John nodded slightly to himself. This was just like every time Sherlock did something incomprehensible to the rest of the human race. You just had to nod and accept the fact that he meant well, but was weird.
This conclusion reached, he began to pay more attention to his surroundings and realised that Moran was outside the changing rooms talking to Jim. John had seen them together on occasion so it wasn't altogether surprising; or at least not beyond the idea that the perpetual loner Moran had made a friend. Jim hadn't noticed John's approach, too busy talking enthusiastically to Moran.
"We're in right at the start of things, Seb." He was saying, excited. "This is just the start of it. We're so close, we just have to-"
"Beginning of what?" John asked, as much to make them aware of his presence as anything else.
"We're looking for buried treasure." Jim said, draping his arm around John's shoulder. Moran nodded at John and slipped off into the changing room. "Want in?"
"No, you're alright." John shrugged him off. "Sherlock might."
"Oh, this isn't his kind of treasure."
"What is it? Girls?"
They both laughed . Sherlock's apparent lack of interest in romance and sheer ignorance about it was a source of amusement now and then.
"Seriously though, mate." John said. "Next time just tell me if it's none of my business."
"Righty-o." Jim said in his sing song voice, poking John in the face. "In that case, John Watson, you just keep your big fat Gryffindor nose out of my business."
John laughed again. "Look, hang on a second while I change and I'll come back up to the castle with you. It must be dinner time by now."
"Don't keep me waiting too long, Johnny-boy."
John went into the changing room, but Moran had already finished and, praising John for his hard work, quietly left.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooo
"Oh. I assumed you'd noticed by now." Sherlock said. "I seem to have underestimated your obliviousness again. Sorry, John."
They were in Gryffindor common room, sitting around the fire. Sherlock was making notes on a side table. Literally on a side table. The house elves would clean it off before morning, but apparently the process helped him. Molly had one of their text books on her lap, searching for an answer to something, Jim, on one of his rare visits, perched on the arm of her chair, helping. John had just explained about River and this was the sympathy he got.
Molly, at least, had more tact. "Oh, John, that's awful!" She cried. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, Molly, I'm fine, I wasn't that serious either." This, at least, was true. He turned to Sherlock. "Does that mean you knew and you didn't tell me?"
"Of course I knew." Sherlock said, choosing to ignore the other half of the question. "I suspected ever since I saw Jim kissing her the day after my birthday."
"I did not!" Jim protested.
"Yes you did." Sherlock said, then reconsidered. "Or, at least, she kissed you."
"Yeah, well, I told her no."
"Yes, afterwards."
"I pushed her off!"
"Yes… eventually."
Molly got to her feet, slapping Jim round the face. As he recoiled she turned to leave, flushing, but he grabbed her hand before she could.
"Molly!" He said. "She kissed me, I was just surprised! I didn't want to! Why would I?"
"Let go of me." She said, irritated, trying to pull free. He kept his grip.
"Molly…" He said, moaning. He started kissing her hand. "Molly, Molly, Molly… I love you…"
"Jim, shut up."
"I adore you…"
"Jim, I mean it!"
"I'd walk a hundred thousand miles for you…"
"Jim, you're making a scene."
"Barefoot."
"Jim!"
"Over hot coals and sharp bits and mud-"
"Oh, alright, alright." Molly finally broke, laughing, though still extremely red in the face due to their becoming the centre of attention in the common room. "You're forgiven." She said, good naturedly. "Now shut up." She pecked his cheek swiftly and sat back down.
"Why don't you make me?" He asked, leaning in towards her. Molly tilted her head towards him, but Jim seemed to change his mind at the last second and put his arm round her shoulders instead. John thought this was odd but would have thought no more of it had he not noticed that Sherlock's gaze had moved elsewhere. He was looking towards the back of the common room, where the stairs were. Moran was standing there. John, confused, looked back towards Jim, but couldn't tell if he had noticed the new arrival or not.
"Listen, Johnny-boy, I'm sorry." Jim was saying. "I swear, she forced herself on me, honestly. I was going to tell you, but…" he glanced guiltily at Molly.
"Don't worry about it." John said. "It seems like she did it to everyone."
"Jim." Moran said, coming over to them. "Can I have a word?"
"Not now."
Moran said nothing, but didn't move. Jim glared at him, then got up.
"Urrgh, fine, but this had better be good!"
The two of them withdrew to the portrait hole, out of earshot, but still in John's eye line. It became obvious quite quickly that they were arguing. Sebastian's face remained largely impassive, but an irritated frown was growing more pronounced on his face. Jim's, on the other hand, was alive with range, twisted and contorted. John decided to go over and intervene before it came to blows.
"-it's useless, he loves John too much. How many times?" Jim was saying, angry.
"I'm just saying you need to be careful about who-"
"I don't need you to tell me to be careful!"
"Jim, what's going on?" John asked, taking a step closer. "Are you alright?"
"Oh, John, would you just go away?!" Livid now, Jim hissed his spiteful words right into John's face. "You're so nosy, always trying to see what's going on, but you never spot it. You're so blind and yet you try to go around spying on people-"
"That's enough!" John answered. "I just came over to see if you were alright. That's all. If you don't like it, fine! I won't bother!" Annoyed, he turned and began to head back into the common room.
"Do you know what happened to the nosy little cat, Johnny-boy?" Jim called after him. "Curiosity killed it."
John ignored him, going back over to his chair and flopping down in it, annoyed. Molly looked worried.
"Is he okay?"
"He's fine, but apparently I'm 'nosy'."
"You are nosy." Sherlock said.
"Molly." Jim came over. He refused to look at John. "Let's take a walk before curfew."
"Oh, but…"
"Come on. I don't like the atmosphere in here." He took her by the hand and dragged her off.
John watched until they were gone and then said "Jim's in a really bad mood today."
"Mm." Sherlock said, clearly not listening as he continued to write on the table top.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooo
The following day saw John receive two apologies. The first was a letter, handed to him at breakfast by a Hufflepuff first year. He almost didn't read it, fearing another love letter- his strange appeal to the youngest in the school still prevailing- but eventually opened it up. It was actually a letter of apology from River, begging him not to think too badly of her and hoping she hadn't hurt him too much. Oddly moved by it, he turned and looked towards the Hufflepuff table, where he saw River was watching him anxiously. It might have been the first time in all seven years at the school he had seen her doing anything other than smiling. Judging by her paleness, she hadn't slept much at all the night before. John waved at her and smiled to show there were no hard feelings, and she looked greatly relieved, grinning back. John was trying not to analyse his own feelings too closely. There was a little hurt perhaps, but mostly bewilderment, wondering if he gave off the aura of someone not interested in commitment. He very nearly made the mistake of asking Sherlock, but just then, Jim arrived, looking sullen. He didn't sit.
"Morning, John." He said.
"Hello." John answered, guardedly, wondering if Jim was planning on renewing the fight. Silence fell.
"Look, about yesterday." Jim said, finally. "I was just in a bad mood."
"I noticed."
"Yeah, well, just… don't take it personally."
"I didn't."
"Liar." Sherlock said. "For goodness sake, Jim, sit down. He forgives you."
"I didn't say that." John said.
"You were about to."
"That's not the point!"
"Jim, just sit down."
Jim sat and smiled. "Aww, Sherley, were you worried? You were worried we were going to fight for ages and be all split up."
"No I wasn't." Sherlock answered. "Molly was obviously going to make you apologise, she always does it to me. Anyway, John always forgives people when they say sorry, even if they don't mean it."
John frowned at this. "No I wouldn't, not if they were being insincere."
"Yes you do." Sherlock answered. "Every time I apologise to you, for a start."
"So you're telling me, every single time you've had to apologise to me in the last seven years, you haven't meant it?"
"No, of course not."
"Fine, then I retract my forgiveness."
"What? Don't be ridiculous!"
"I'm not, if you aren't sorry then I'm not forgiving you. So let's see… are we just counting the times you've said the word sorry? Because then I think there will only be about two. Or is it all the times you've acted sorry, in which case we could be here a while. I think it started on the train in the first year when you let your ferret eat my first ever chocolate frog-"
"Boys, boys!" Jim interrupted. "Can you give it a rest for five minutes? Mommy wants to eat breakfast in peace!"
"He started it." Sherlock said.
"More importantly," John asked. "Why are you 'mommy'?"
It took the arrival of Molly to finally settle down the good natured bickering and teasing, and they at last turned their attention to their food and the mountain of homework they were supposed to have done by Monday. All except Sherlock, who, in spite of an outstanding performance in his OWLs two years before, had still to submit a single piece of homework for any subject. Molly sometimes told him off for being proud of this, but John could half understand the attraction and nobility of such long-continued defiance and suspected Molly could too.
"I'll make it up to you properly, Johnny-boy." Jim said later, slapping him on the back as they left the breakfast hall. "Next Hogsmeade trip we get, I'll buy you a drink."
"I'll hold you to that."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooo
The next Hogsmeade trip, as it turned out, was on the last day of October. Hogwarts certainly knew how to do Halloween right; classes that day were cancelled, making it a three-day weekend, and the trip into Hogsmeade and the promise of a hearty feast that night were enough to raise most spirits in the castle. For John, it was a good enough excuse to stop worrying about studying or Quidditch for a day and just enjoy it. If only his friends were more compliant.
"Sherlock, you're coming."
"No, I'm not."
"You do know it's our last year here, don't you? We only have two or three more trips."
"And the school will be quiet." Sherlock answered. "At last. I have things to be getting on with."
"Hmm, yes, let's think what vital work you'll do." John paused theatrically. "Playing your violin? Clipping Agatha's claws? Analysing soil?"
Sherlock glared.
"Oh, come on, Sherlock. Your research is finished, you have no excuse."
"If you must know, I plan on-"
"No, not interested, you're coming."
"You can't make me."
"I will send Molly down."
"Send her, why would I care?"
"I'll tell my mom you're withdrawing from us."
Sherlock protested, but nevertheless, when they went down to the village Sherlock went too.
The weather was drawing in and out in the middle of nowhere as they were, it was getting colder and colder. John had never quite lost the habit of wearing warm jumpers and jackets, even when he had become acclimatised to the British climate; but today he wasn't the only one wrapped up warm. Most of the students were in coats and their school scarves, including Sherlock and Molly. Jim had his Slytherin scarf on, tied in front of him, but had left off his coat in favour of a thick cardigan over a tightly fitted and brightly coloured shirt. John did ask him how he was planning on not freezing to death, but Jim had just laughed and said "You're just jealous you don't look this good, Johnny-boy."
Indeed, Jim did seem to have been giving much more attention to his appearance nowadays, appearing every morning with perfectly styled hair and suspected trimmed eyebrows. John supposed it must be for Molly's benefit, who did seem to appreciate it. John, however, decided he would much rather be warm than fashionable and kept his jacket firmly zipped up as they walked down into the village.
Sherlock was sulking, turning his coat collar up against the wind and making it obvious he didn't want to be there. John ignored him, knowing Sherlock was only refusing to cheer up in order to prove a point. They wandered down the high street, admiring the elaborately carved Jack-o-Lanterns and candle arrangements put up in the streets, while the shops all featured cheery displays in their windows, advertising sales and specials in honour of the festival as the shop keepers cashed in. They were just turning to go into Honeydukes sweet shop, to stock up on some much needed revision supplies, when Sherlock caught hold of Molly's arm.
"Come with me." He commanded.
"Where are we going?" John asked.
"Not you. We'll meet you at the Three Broomsticks." Without further ado, he left, pulling the helpless Molly with him. Shrugging, John went into the sweet shop to catch up with Jim and explain the sudden absence of his girlfriend.
"Oh." Jim muttered. "I should have known he was onto me."
"What?"
"Nothing. Look at these! They're new, they make you breathe fire out your mouth!"
"I really just want something that's easy to eat." John replied. After spending so much time in the wizard world, the novelty of food that didn't want to be eaten had most definitely worn off.
Eventually, restocked with the necessary study aids, John and Jim headed across to the Three Broomsticks. Outside it was miserably cold and beginning to drizzle, so John was expecting it to be packed out with their fellow students; but in reality, the pub was unusually quiet.
"Everyone's gone back up to the castle." Jim said. "Not much to do here on a day like this. Everyone wants to get back ready for the feast. And so do I, but no, we're stuck here waiting on the whims of Sherlock Holmes." He threw himself into a chair at one of the empty tables with a huff of displeasure. "What's with him just going off with Molly anyway? I thought the four of us were meant to stick together."
"I thought you knew where he was." John answered. "Didn't you say he was 'on to' you?"
"Doesn't mean I know where he's gone." Jim said, sulkily.
"Well, you know something, which is more than me." John replied, sitting down too. "Jim, what's going on?"
"Don't interrogate me, Johnny-boy."
"Pretty sure an interrogation has to have more than one question."
Jim looked at him and then cracked, chuckling. "Direct as always. Alright, but I'm getting a drink first."
"Don't forget, you owe me one."
Once adequately supplied with their drinks, John sat back in his chair, arms folded, waiting. He had learnt his lesson about how Sherlock and Jim liked to wriggle out of questions they didn't want to answer, Jim especially. He wasn't going to let this one get away from him. Seeing his expression, Jim gave a deep frustrated sigh before speaking.
"John, how did you break up with River?"
This was not what John had been expecting. "What?"
"I mean, you still get on alright, don't you? And she wasn't too upset. So what did you do?"
"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly have much of a choice." John reminded him. "According to her we were never going out to start with."
"And she was cheating on you."
"Yeah, but never mind that, what are you on about? Are you planning on dumping Molly?"
"Oh, so you can deduce things after all. Well done."
"Why?! You two are still all over each other! Don't you like her now?"
"I like her." Jim said. "Just… I don't know, I can't go out with her much longer."
"Why not?"
Jim just shrugged. Something suddenly occurred to John.
"Is this something to do with the thing with Moran?"
"What?" Jim looked confused, but John could have sworn that before that, just for half a second, there had been a glimmer of concern in his eyes.
"Is this what you were rowing with Moran about? Has he got something on you?"
Jim burst out laughing. "Oh, John, what are you on about? I think someone's been spending too much time with Sherlock!"
"Well, sorry." John huffed. "But I don't see why else you would want to split up with Molly."
Jim shrugged. "Sherley doesn't like it though." He said. "You know what he's like, he hates it when anything changes. I think he's trying to keep me away from Molly so I can't break up with her."
"Good!"
"Oh, don't you start." Jim sighed. "Look… it's going to have to happen eventually. Just saying."
"But you don't really want to?"
Another shrug. "I don't mind."
"You mean you don't know. Look, Jim, just don't do anything until you've made up your mind. And don't break up with her just because you think you've made up your mind and you're too stubborn to admit you're having second thoughts."
"In other words, just don't break up with her."
"Preferably."
Jim sighed in frustration. "You're as bad as him."
At that moment, the him in question entered, with considerably tidier hair than the last time they had seen him. It was immediately obvious even to John that Sherlock had paid a visit to the hair dressing salon opposite Honeydukes on the high street, even though this was unheard of. Unlike John, who made sure to have his hair cut every time he was home, Sherlock could only ever be persuaded to bother when it was falling in his eyes and getting in the way; and usually only then because John's mother refused to have him in the house unless he let her tidy it up for him. He was followed in by Molly, who had also had her hair cut and styled. John did not know enough about women's hair to identify exactly what had been done to it, but it was shorter and shaped. It suited her; at least more than her usual ponytail had. John had to force himself to blink. He hated it when Molly did this; looking normal most of the time, and then just occasionally changing her hair or her clothes and looking stunning when he wasn't prepared for it, and then he had to remember not to stare or Jim would kill him. Next to him, Jim was chuckling.
"I bet she told him she would only get a hair cut if he had one too." He said. "He probably thought if she looked better I might not break up with her." He shook his head. "Ha, that's adorable."
"Don't let him hear you say that." John warned, smiling as their friends came to join them. Jim smiled at Molly and complimented her, making her smile, and then moved on to tease Sherlock, reaching over to mess his hair up again until Sherlock got annoyed and pushed him off, at which point they began to bicker like children.
Business as usual. John, trying not to show any concern in front of Molly, sipped at his drink and waited for the fight to either blow itself out or reach intervention level. On this occasion it ended with laughter, or at least with Jim laughing, Molly giggling in spite of herself, and Sherlock sulking. Watching them quietly, John hoped Jim would reconsider. He and Molly were good for each other. More than once, and reluctant as he was to admit it, John had noticed a dark streak in both Sherlock and Jim; and Molly was the one who stopped them from getting into too much trouble. He just hoped they would be alright when they left Hogwarts. That was something he hoped for all of them.