Disclaimer / Author's Note:Hi, this is Sam. I would just like to say that the author of this story is dead. I killed her. I killed her because she could not master the art of writing an author's note/disclaimer. Her body is currently tied up and stuffed in my wardrobe, where I poke her three times a day with a pointy knife. 'Tis fun.
Thank you for that lovely update Sam... I'll bare that in mind... apparently I'm dead... no more updates then :3
Disclaimer: The author owns nothing, as she left it all to Sam in her will. Although Sam still gets nothing out of it (HAHA!)
Go die in a hole.
Apparently I already have.
Do it again. Only this time set yourself on fire and sing "Burn baby, burn~"
"~Disco Inferno!"
I'd just like to point out that there are actually two people typing this out, the author may be mad, but she's not THAT insane.
What are you... I mean "I"... on about? Of course I am!
...See what I have to put up with? ¬_¬
She... I... love it really.
...Get on with the bloody story. Bish.
Make me! SHE'S... I'm... HITTING ME!
I apologise for this...we be in a strange mood...init blad.
-_- I will hurt you... me.
Sam (Editor) = Bold
Susan (Author) = Italics
Yeah, because they couldn't have figured that out for themselves. Nope.
We are a little mindfucking
Don't worry, I'll be gentle
Please don't scar the reader's innocent minds
...You're no fun. Ok, title now.
Fuck with them later ;)
The Woman
The school had never been so crowded during the Christmas Holidays, with the addition of the students from Bauxbatons and Durmstrang a slightly claustrophobic feeling settled over the castle. Students amused themselves with "Inter-house Snowball Fights" to determine which house was truly the best; a tradition that had begun in the 1970's and continued through to the present day, as did some of the harsh techniques. Other students could be found huddled together in the freezing corridors or in the welcoming Great Hall; they entertained themselves with the singing suits of armour or watched as the Hogwarts Staff magically wound garlands of Holly and Mistletoe around banisters or strings of shimmering silver tinsel around the twelve wondrous trees which now resided in the Great Hall.
Sherlock usually stayed at Hogwarts over the Christmas Holidays. He found the undisturbed silence peaceful, but isolating all the same. John usually went home, leaving Sherlock to roam the castle alone. Today didn't feel any different; John was spending time with Mary Morstan again with the promise that he and Sherlock would spend the evening and the next day together. Barely conscious of where he was walking, Sherlock turned down a corridor on the seventh floor. Someone cleared their throat loudly, dragging him out of his mind palace. He abruptly stopped walking and pivoted to face the source of the noise.
A tall slender woman, no older than fifteen (She could barely be classed as a child. Her posture gave the impression that she had been launched into maturity without a backwards glance) leaned against the wall, her robes, which bore the symbol of Salazar Slytherin, hung loosely off of her shoulders revealing the crisp white shirt beneath, the top two buttons of the shirt were undone and the silver and green stripped tie dangled in a slack knot just below her bosom. Her hair was ebony and tightly pulled back into a bun, her eyes glinted in the dull light of the corridor, the shape of her eyes were exaggerated by her eyeliner and mascara, her crimson lips were full and pulled to one side in a slight smirk. She clasped her wand in her hands staring at Sherlock with a hungry expression.
He vaguely recognised her face, he had passed her many times in the corridor and he'd even caught her watching him intently in the Great Hall on one occasion.
'Look at those cheekbones.' The woman's voice was more of a light purr. She lightly pushed herself away from the wall and walked delicately towards Sherlock. 'I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?'
'Not particularly.' Sherlock's eyes flitted to the wand in her hands. 'Dragon Heartstring and Elm. Twelve and a half inches.'
'Excuse me?'
'Your wand. Dragon Heartstring and Elm, twelve and a half inches. Mind if I take a look?'
A mischievous grin flashed across the woman's face. 'You can have mine, if I can have yours.' Sherlock raised his eyebrow at her. 'It's only fair.'
Sherlock drew his wand from the sleeve of his robes and passed it to her, as she placed her own in his outstretched hand. He examined it, feeling the structure of it. It was quite supple and the size obviously contrasted with her height. Within seconds he had reached a decision. The woman had watched him the whole time, a smile still playing across her face. Sherlock gave her wand back cautiously, ensuring that he would definitely receive his own in return.
'So?' Her tone was calm and she tried to read Sherlock's facial expression.
'Very interesting.' Sherlock commented as he stowed his wand away.
'What's interesting?'
'Your personality.'
The grin on her face widened. 'We barely know each other.'
'No, you barely know me. I know everything I need to know about you.'
'By looking at my wand?'
'A wand is like an open book.'
'What does the book say about me?' She smiled curiously, encouraging him to explain.
'The wood your wand consists of is Elm. This tells me that you're a Pureblood; that type of wand is never found in the hands of a Half-Blood or a Muggleborn. The wood itself creates sophisticated wands, which are capable of highly advanced magic, this means that it is unlikely that you will have misfortunes or compose foolish mistakes with that wand. This also provides you with elegant charms.'
'Why thank you.'
'Don't mention it. The core of your wand, Dragon Heartstring. This implies that your wand is powerful and capable of the most ostentatious spells. That wand is a fast learner and is bonded strongly to you… for now.'
'For now?'
'Their alliance can change quite easily. They are rather unpredictable. You have a lot in common with this wand. As for the flexibility… supple… you're quite adaptable.'
'That's quite impressive.'
'Not really, that's amateur.'
'Dinner followed by a dance?' Sherlock raised his eyebrow again. 'There's one on Christmas Day, I daresay it's escaped your notice.'
'The Yule Ball. I have a date thanks.'
'Really? Who?'
'Molly Hooper.'
The glint in the woman's eye faded slightly but her expression didn't change. 'I heard she was going with someone else. I think his name was Terry.' Sherlock didn't respond. 'If you change your mind come and find me. Ask for Irene Adler, I'm sure I won't be hard to find though.'
Sherlock closed the door and cast a look around the familiar room; a huge bookcase stretched across the back wall, a red cushiony sofa rested on top of the hearthrug in front of a marble fireplace, the green flames danced merrily around the small space giving the room an odd glow. A small basket of logs, another basket filled with coal, a poker and a small pot of blue powder; Copper Sulphate stood next to the small marble plinth of the fireplace. Sherlock gave a small smile at the thought of the powder; Mycroft could easily mistake it for Floo Powder.
As Pureblooded wizards, Mycroft and himself had been home schooled by their mother, most wizarding families did this to help reduce the risk of exposing the magical world. Sherlock and Mycroft didn't learn about electricity or how to find America on the map of the world, they didn't learn how to speak different languages or the complicated Pythagoras theory. They learnt small household spells, simple Athrimancy, how to read and write, how to control their magic and the history of their family background. Science was just something Sherlock found by mistake, but he loved it. He secretly studied it when he was away from Mycroft's preying eyes; feeling that Mycroft would lecture him about meddling in Muggle business if he were ever to find out.
This room was the room that Sherlock used as his thinking space. It was a rather unique room as it only appears when the seeker needs it and is equipped with the needs he or she requires; with the exception of food. He rarely visited it because he was usually in the company of John; who didn't know about the room yet. That was going to change though; Sherlock had left Hermione with a note and made her promise to pass it on to John if she saw him.
"John,
Meet me on the seventh floor at eight o'clock this evening.
Sherlock."
Sherlock moved further into the room, retrieved a book that took his fancy from the bookshelf and settled himself down upon the sofa and waited for eight o'clock to draw closer.
John checked his watch for the third time. Two minutes past eight. He was sure the watch read eight o'clock around ten minutes ago. Four minutes past eight. Time does like to go slow when you're waiting for something. Eight minutes past eight. It was unusual for Sherlock to be late, even if it was only a few minutes. Sixteen minutes past eight. John slid down the wall, unsure of what to do. Should he wait where he was or go looking for Sherlock? Thirty-two minutes past eight. John grew anxious, but tried to reason with himself. Sherlock couldn't be in any trouble, this was Hogwarts, Dumbledore wouldn't allow it.
"Ah!" A small voice in his head interrupted John's thoughts. "What about Professor Quirrell? The Basilisk? And those Dementors weren't very pleasant, were they?"
'They're gone now!' John told himself furiously. 'Professor Quirrell is dead, so is the Basilisk and the Dementors have gone back to Azkaban!'
"Remember what Sherlock said?" The voice teased. "There's a supporter of Lord Voldemort within the castle walls, maybe he followed you to the Owlery and overheard your discussion last night, maybe he's decided to get rid of Sherlock to help prevent his plan from being foiled."
Images flew through John's mind. Sherlock writhing on the floor in pain. Sherlock defenceless and cornered by masked men. Sherlock locked away, all alone. Sherlock laying on the floor at the foot of the Astronomy Tower in an awkward position, a crimson pool of blood increasing around him; staining his clothes… he wasn't moving… he look pale and clammy… he felt cold… he was dead.
'NOOOOOOO!' The howl erupted from within John's chest, though he didn't notice that the horrendous noise issued from him. 'SHERLOCK!'
'John!' Something collided with the side of John's face, but he felt too numb to register the pain.
'SHERLOCK!'
'John, everything is fine.' The voice was recognisable yet the soothing tone didn't suit it. The hand that had slapped John was now cupping his face and directing it towards the owner of the soothing voice. 'It's all right John, I promise. Open your eyes and look at me.' John obeyed the command and opened his eyes. Steely grey eyes, which were lined with, worry stared back at him. 'See, you're fine.' Sherlock spoke in an unusually soft tone. John stared around the room with a bemused expression, fret still present in his eyes.
'I – you – where am I?'
'This is the Room of Requirements.' Sherlock waved his hand around the room. 'The name's quite self-explanatory. I found you in the corridor, you must've fallen asleep, but you mentioned a body and started yelling. I brought you in here in case Filch decided to come snooping around.' John barely took in the information Sherlock offered. He was still gazing around the room. 'You need to rest, perhaps a night in the Hospital Wing ought to –'
'No, I feel fine.' John sat up and swayed slightly. He noticed that he was lying on a red sofa before a green fire, which he was gazing at in a discombobulated manner. Sherlock followed his gaze. 'Who are you calling?'
'Oh!' Sherlock jumped excitedly to his feet and grabbed the Copper Sulphate powder. 'It's a chemical the Muggle children study at school. You add this to the flames and the chemicals react to the heat creating the colours you see. Sherlock levitated some of the powder with the levitation charm, directed it onto one of the logs in the fire and let it fall in a heap. As the powder burned the flame changed colour; a flare of white rose from where the powder was heaped, the white was framed by a slight purple and blue all of which was enclosed by the green blaze. The powder slowly sizzled away leaving the green fire to burn brightly. 'Copper Sulphate.' Sherlock grinned. 'Funny, it does look just like Floo Powder…Basically, the electrons of the chemical compound gain energy from the heat of the flames. The electrons will begin to move rapidly, this will enable the electrons to move through different levels of energy, the different levels of energy will cause different colours; this is known as the light spectrum. You'll be able to find out more if you read up on Bohr's theory.'
'Where did you get it from?' John rose to his feet and moved towards Sherlock so he could examine the powder.
'The room supplied it. As I said, it's equipped with the seekers needs.'
'Why did you want to meet here?'
'We won't get overheard by anyone here. Hardly anyone knows that this room exists.' Sherlock pulled a letter out from his robes pocket. 'Greg replied. Received the owl just after Breakfast this morning.'
'What did he say?'
'He's discussed the issue with Rufus Scrimgeour –'
'Who?'
'He's the head of the Auror office. Anyway, he's spoken to Rufus, claiming my ideas as his own. Apparently Rufus has agreed to allow Greg to attend the other Triwizard Tasks and other school events along with two other Aurors, just to keep an eye on things.' Sherlock passed the letter to John as he explained. 'They're not telling Moody, they feel that he'll just become paranoid if they do.'
'It says here…' John pointed at the scrawl handwriting of Greg Lestrade on the letter. 'That he's bringing Sally Donavon and Anderson.'
'Urgh… don't remind me.'
