John hadn't meant to eavesdrop, originally. He was going to clomp away with dignity, go mope somewhere.

But then he'd heard the two of them start talking. He was just outside the Great Hall, so he went to the right and stood behind the open door. He had to strain, but he could definitely hear them.

"Sorry about that," he'd just barely heard Greg say.

"Don't be. In fact, it's possible I deserved that." Possible? John rolled his eyes. "I'm still not convinced that caring isn't dangerous," Mycroft continued, "but John is good for him. Sherlock needs to stop pushing him away."

John was surprised by the comment. Mycroft thought John was good for Sherlock? Who knew.

"Sorry," Mycroft said after a moment, "I'm not really here to talk about my brother."

"It's alright. I've been paying attention to what's going on between John and Sherlock too. John's… reluctant to admit how he's feeling." Where did Greg get off saying something like that to Mycroft? John had half a mind to come out of hiding and punch Greg in his stupid face… but what Mycroft said next saved him.

"As is my brother."

It went silent, which meant Greg was probably as shocked by the comment as John. He pulled himself closer without realising it.

"Wait," Greg finally said, "You don't mean—"

"That John has gained Sherlock's romantic affections? Most certainly."

No way. Mycroft thought that Sherlock liked him.

Not that Mycroft knew a thing about his brother. He wouldn't trust it just because Mycroft said it—seeing as it was unlikely the two of them had a heart to heart where Sherlock admitted it himself, which meant he was just guessing.

"I didn't know Sherlock was even capable of feeling like that," Greg responded.

"I wasn't sure myself, but here we are." There was a thoughtful pause then. "Gregory," he finally said, "you might be unhappy with me when I tell you this, but I failed my little brother when I raised him." What? Mycroft was admitting what now? He leaned in closer. "I was six when I began to take care of him. I was a child just like him and I had no idea what damage I could cause him, but I know I am the cause of his fear of companionship. I have avoided companionship all my life because I didn't want it and thought it was dangerous, and I pushed that belief on him at such a young age that it's become engrained in him. I have the choice to change my mind on a whim, but because of what I said to Sherlock when he was still impressionable, he will have much more difficulty overcoming it. I would never tell Sherlock this," he added. "He and I…"

"Have a rivalry?"

"Yes. If I could take back what I did, I probably would, but I can't. And Sherlock knows what I did. Admitting it to him wouldn't help him. He hates me. If I tried to tell him I was wrong and that he should stop pushing John away, he might push him farther just to spite me." He was quiet again. "I hope that John can fix him where I failed."

Well, Mycroft definitely wasn't big brother of the year, but John kind of understood his predicament.

And there was this part about his theory that Sherlock was pushing John away out of fear. John knew from the moment Sherlock said what he did that it wasn't true. He'd never been hurt because he believed it—he'd been upset that Sherlock gets off on being mean to people.

But what Mycroft was saying implied that he wasn't trying to hurt John at all. He was just scared and was lashing out because of it. He hoped if he said that he didn't care about John, something he truly feared, that it might become true. And that was just human.

John imagined Sherlock alone somewhere. Was he thinking about John at all? Sherlock wasn't actually heartless—and now that John's anger had simmered down, he could admit that Sherlock had looked pretty upset about John storming away.

John didn't want this to go on any longer. Using the nonverbal spells he'd been practising all night while he couldn't sleep, he tapped the pin and said into it, "Sherlock, sorry I got all pissy. I was just up all night. Would you meet me by the lake?"

John wasn't sure what he was going to say—since he wasn't near ready to confront whatever was really going on between the two of them—but he didn't want to fight with him either. So he went and sat by the lake. Right now it was sparkling yellow and green in the sunlight—the Black Lake was anything but black in the early mornings.

Sherlock took so short to arrive that he must've already been on the grounds. He sat down next to him, tucking his knees up in his chest in a particularly childish pose—but Sherlock didn't carry himself like a child, that was for sure. He was all grace and intrigue.

"I shouldn't have said what I did," Sherlock said immediately after he sat.

John honestly thought he would have to be the bigger person and apologise, since Sherlock would rather dip himself in hot oil than admit that he's wrong about something, but clearly the exchange had been on his mind.

"It's okay," John said. "I know you didn't really mean it. You just… get like that."

"Why didn't you sleep?" asked Sherlock conversationally.

John looked over to him, surprised by the question. "You don't have to keep apologising. I forgive you. I know you don't care about things like that. It's alright."

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together, saying in a frustrated tone, "If I didn't care, I wouldn't have asked."

Sometimes John didn't get Sherlock at all. At times he was so callous it was nauseating and at other times, he cared about silly things that even John might not ask about. John could never tell which side of Sherlock he'd see in any given situation.

But in this moment, he seemed genuine, so he answered honestly. "I was supposed to be working on that essay, but I didn't get that done until right before I went to meet you." He paused. "Mostly I was just really scared I'd hurt your feelings. I couldn't stop thinking about it."

"My feelings are fine," replied Sherlock blandly.

"Sherlock…" John muttered. Maybe it was pressing his luck, but Sherlock was being vaguely open at the moment. He might be able to get a little more out of him. "You don't have to pretend with me, you know. I know you."

"I'm not pretending anything," said Sherlock. "My feelings really are fine."

"But they weren't last night?" guessed John.

He was silent, avoiding John's gaze with his mouth pressed into a hard line. "Nothing irreparable, John. And it's been repaired. So could we just forget it ever happened?"

Yeah, definitely pushing it. John'd said it himself to Greg: he couldn't force anything out of Sherlock. It all had to be in his own time.

But that didn't mean John wasn't still wondering…

Even after spending all night thinking about it, he still didn't get why Sherlock was upset in the first place. Why had staying there meant so much to him? John feared he'd never figure it out.

But at the moment, there was no point in trying, so he replied, "Yeah, I suppose so."

"Good," said Sherlock. "Then we can go onto the next adventure."

"Already?"

"No time like the present."

John smirked. "Alright, then what do we do now?"

"First things first," said Sherlock, "We go back to the Room of Requirement."

Molly was sitting at a nearby tree when she heard John and Sherlock talking. She didn't expect anything of acute interest from the conversation, since it began with them making up after some sort of argument, but that was before they started talking about adventures and going back to the Room of Requirement. Then they stood up and slowly made their way to the castle.

Back? wondered Molly. She wasn't surprised that the Come and Go Room was a topic of interest for the two of them, who commonly looked like they were going to get into trouble together ever since they met at the beginning of the school year, but if they were going back, that meant they'd actually found it.

She considered, very shortly, whether or not she should follow them, but the debate in her mind was record-breakingly succinct before she stood and shadowed them.

See, for Molly Hooper, life was constantly boring. It always had been. She learned from a very young age that if she wanted to experience anything interesting, she'd have to do it vicariously through others.

And thus, Molly was an incurable eavesdropper. It was amazing the amount of things someone could hear when they spent most of their time alone. And that was before she trained her ears to work harder, which was before she started using potions to assist her… it was unhealthy and she knew it, but she couldn't stop. It was too much fun. And it's not like she did anything with the information. Sure, it was an invasion of privacy, but she never went and blabbed about it or mentioned that she'd heard it. She just watched life pass, knowing she'd never experience any of these things herself and having to settle with voyeurism.

She usually liked to follow people with enough proximity that she could hear them speak, but she couldn't risk it with Sherlock most of the time. He was too observant and she didn't want him to notice her before they got to the Room—the first piece of stolen information she'd ever use.

It was a shame she couldn't hear them, however, because Sherlock and John becoming friends was the best thing that could happen to an eavesdropper. They were easily the most interesting pair at Hogwarts. Thank god Sherlock barely knew she existed or he'd have noticed ages ago that she was in their vicinity as often as she could manage—not that she could often find them.

She'd been interested in John and Sherlock separately before they met, so it wasn't really surprising that she liked listening to them together. She'd known John for almost all her life, and he'd always fascinated her because he noticed the unnoticeable. He had always liked Molly, even when everyone else found her boring and awkward. There was a time when they almost dated, but that fell through pretty quickly—too awkward. Always too awkward. Honestly, he was everything she'd always wished she was—kind but interesting. Modest but impossible to ignore. And now he was Sherlock's best friend and possibly the object of his affections, so Molly had real reason to admire him now...

And Sherlock… god, she couldn't remember a time at Hogwarts when she didn't fancy Sherlock. When they'd gotten into the carriage on the first day of this year, she'd immediately seen him when nobody else gave him a second thought. She stared at the Thestrals with him—she'd always been able to see the beasts, but never mentioned it because she thought she was crazy. But then Sherlock explained the phenomenon and everything made sense—she'd been in the room when her grandmother died when she was four.

He was always doing things like that. Saying little things that shattered her perception of everything and not even knowing he did it. She'd never stopped fancying him, no matter how mean he sometimes was. Most people didn't even like him, and if she had ever confided in anyone they would never understand—she hardly did herself. He was clever, sure, but he was also cruel… but maybe that was exactly it. This part of him that John had brought out… she'd always sensed it. In a fantasy world in her mind, she was the one to unlock it. But she really was pleased about it, even if it hadn't been her.

"So what did you want to talk about? I've got papers to grade."

Molly heard the voice and stopped in her tracks. A whispered conversation always caught her attention—whispering meant she was going to get something juicy—but this was even more intriguing than usual… because it was Professor Slughorn talking, 'round the corner where people usually hid to snog. And he was off having a secret conversation? And on top of that, he sounded pretty irritated.

With one last longing glance, she let John and Sherlock go inside the castle. They were bound to go back to the Room another time. This, however, sounded like a once in a lifetime chance.

"Well," started a voice Molly recognized from just that one word—Professor Moriarty. He had this wavering, singsong voice that she could pick out anywhere. "I actually wanted to speak with you about management."

She quickly became frustrated that she couldn't read their body language, so she reached into her pocket, feeling for the right potion bottle in her Eavesdropping Arsenal. The long skinny one was the Invisibility Potion. She tended to avoid this one, since it was nearly impossible to get caught using a hearing-enhancing potion but it was frighteningly easy to be caught while invisible (especially if you turn visible in a public place) but this seemed worth the risk.

She checked her hand—since there was always a slight chance a potion wouldn't work—before leaning 'round the corner to look at the pair. She could only see Slughorn's face, since Moriarty's back was to her, but Slughorn looked pretty disgruntled. What, did the two not get along? She'd never noticed that before. Plus, Slytherins were usually so tight-knit. She figured if any professors would always be on the same side, it was a couple of Slytherins.

"Management?" Slughorn asked with an eyebrow up. "I haven't the faintest clue what you mean."

"I mean…" Moriarty murmured. "Can we speak to each other openly?"

"Of course we can, Jim."

"You're a Slytherin, same as me. You're Head of House. If anything, you have the House's best interests at heart even more than I."

"I always try to do what's best for the students, yes," he said warily.

"So you'd do anything you had to?" Moriarty persisted. "To do what's best for them?"

"I don't understand what you're getting at here, James," said Slughorn exasperatedly. She'd never seen Slughorn like this—he was usually so jovial. Maybe a little stand-offish at times, but mostly happy, even under pressure. Now he was defensive, angry, nervous… In fact, both of them seemed off. Moriarty, who was usually hyper and fun, seemed suddenly reserved, business-like. His voice was hypnotic and quiet, and he wasn't waving his arms emphatically like he might usually.

"What I'm getting at," said Moriarty, "is that I wonder what your opinion is on how Minerva has been running things lately."

Slughorn's concern seemed to lessen then, but was replaced with some dark emotion. "You know how I feel about it, I'm sure."

"Yes, I thought I did," agreed Moriarty dramatically. "I only wanted to hear it from you, Horace." He paused and waited for Slughorn to spell out what he meant—which was helpful for Molly, who was now a little lost.

"Well," said Slughorn after a pause. "I think that there are students who will succeed and there are ones who won't. And Minerva's new policy of having all the Houses intermingle is causing the more impressive students to become… distracted."

"Especially our fellow Purebloods?" asked Moriarty, walking around Slughorn. This meant Molly could finally see his face and now she had to bite her tongue to keep from gasping. He looked… wrong. She couldn't explain how, exactly, but something in his eyes… he looked evil, suddenly.

And Slughorn looked truly frightened, now that Moriarty couldn't see his face. He refused to turn about to look at him while he spoke. "I… I do admit… Don't get me wrong, I don't hate Muggleborns. I'm no You-Know-Who supporter, Jim."

"I understand, Horace," said Moriarty. "But still. They're just not the same as Pureblood wizards, are they?"

Horace looked really nervous now. "What are you saying, James?" he repeated.

"I'm saying that Minerva's way of running this school is going against the tradition of the establishment. What do you think Salazar Slytherin would think of where this school has gone, Horace?"

"He'd despise it, of that I'm sure. But I still don't know what you're getting at, James," he said impatiently. "If you want to get rid of her, you have to take it up with the Ministry."

"The Ministry?" Moriarty chuckled. "They take ages to get anything done. And they'll just replace her with another sentimental fool. No, we need new leadership now… and to do that, we must do it ourselves."

"I… Maybe you're right," Slughorn said.

And then a huge grin appeared on Moriarty's face, his eyes twinkling—but it looked nothing like it normally did. It was manic, frightening. He began to clap. "Oh, bravo, Horace. That was a wonderful show." His voice was right back to its ordinary, singsong quality.

"W—what?"

Moriarty laughed dramatically. "You plan to go to the Headmistress right now and hand her the memory right out of your head."

"What do you mean, Jim?" asked Slughorn, but he looked even more anxious than before.

"Do you imagine you can lie to me?" he asked, still grinning like a madman.

"I… listen, Jim—"

"You had your chance to be honest. You lied. So time for plan B. Imperio."

Slughorn suddenly stood stalk straight, a dreamy smile on his face. Molly covered her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. Moriarty had just done an Unforgivable Curse right outside Hogwarts. This was bad. Really bad. She had to tell McGonagall.

But then he started talking again. She hoped she might hear a little more, so she stayed.

"Much better," said Moriarty in a satisfied tone. "Now I just need to get the rest of the professors on board with me. But you can help with that, can't you, Horace?"

Slughorn nodded sleepily and giggled.

"Good. Start with Sybill. She's so strange already that nobody will notice if she's under an enchantment—whoa, Horace, careful," he said, catching Slughorn as he stumbled. "The charm feels funny at first. You'll feel just a teensy bit dizzy. Here, I'll walk you to the castle. You'll get used to it, don't worry."

Slughorn nodded again, and he started to walk away. Molly stepped back slowly, not even daring to breathe. Alright, enough was enough. She had to get to McGonagall, but she had to be sure not to make a sound. If Moriarty heard her… Well, he planned to curse every teacher in the school. What would he do to a measly student?

She started to back up slowly—

She froze. She stared as her skin crawled. Moriarty had stopped walking and was staring right at her.

"I'll be back for you in a minute," he whispered. "You just stay there," he added with a flick of his wand, and simultaneously, she felt two things happen. First, she couldn't move her feet. Like they were stuck to the ground. And second, there was a full feeling in her throat. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.

What was he going to do to her? He couldn't kill her, not here and now. She'd considered a million times what people might do if they caught her, what she would do herself, but in her head it had been a student—a mean student at worst. This was different. This was dangerous.

Well, there was one thing she could do. She quickly got out a piece of parchment from her robe, glad that she was able to move her hands. She scribbled something down as fast as she could and shoved it in her bra. Not that Moriarty was above checking a bra, necessarily, but it was safer than a pocket. She wished she could write more, but if he caught her then it would all be pointless.

He was back from inside the castle barely a second later and it was a long minute as she watched him approach her, his gait leisurely.

"Molly Hooper," he said. "Now, now, eavesdropping, are you? How naughty of you. And I always figured you were dull. My mistake."

Molly just stared at him, thinking about the colour of his eyes and the weather—anything but what she'd just done. If he was skilled at Legilimency, she had to think about only immediate details or he'd know. His shirt had a stain on it. Her nose itched, but she was too afraid to move.

"I think a forgetfulness charm will do. Obliviate."

She had only a moment to be relieved that she wrote the note before everything went black.

Molly woke up leaning against her favourite tree next to the lake, groggy. Oh, had she fallen asleep? Damn, she'd meant to follow Sherlock and John, who were talking about… something… Oh yeah, the Room of Requirement. But then… how'd she fall asleep with such a fascinating conversation to overhear? Oh well. Better luck next time.

"Hello, Ms Hooper."

She looked up and saw Professor Moriarty walking by. She waved, affording him a smile. She'd always liked him.