John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and spun him around.
"Sherlock Holmes," he hissed, "Mike says I'm an idiot for being friends with you. Maybe he's right. So will you please tell me what happened?"
Sherlock stiffened and paused. "Okay."
"Anderson was congratulating me on the solved case, not very subtly reminding me to give him a referral to Mycroft. I was about to go check on Molly Hooper in the hospital. Anderson—"
"I want to know how you solved it, not the aftermath," John cut in abruptly, annoyed.
"Oh. In that case, we'll need some time," said Sherlock as he began to walk, and John could do nothing but follow.
"So, how I solved it. When Molly was dropped off, per se, in front of the doors, I studied her burns. The way they were distributed did correspond to the way someone would've been burnt if fallen near a fire, in this case the fire-seed bush.
"There was, however, one specific patch that had more prominent blistering than the rest, and I immediately noticed it was in the very vague shape of an oval. Perhaps it was a way of the fire-seed bush, but I wouldn't check that until later.
"I know ways to tell if people are lying; some bite their lip, some shrug, some look away, bounce their leg, et cetera."
"Hold on," John said following Sherlock as he strode purposefully to god-knows-where, "so, what do I do?"
"Oh ho," said Sherlock with a smirk, "so you've lied since you've met me."
"Not what I'm implying," John protested.
Sherlock laughed. "I know. And it's really not a very reliable method, anyways. You could fake it, double bluff, triple bluff, and so on.
"Anyways."
"As far as I could tell, the centaur wasn't involved in anything. He was just in the right place at the wrong time. Or, vice-versa, I suppose. Molly Hooper would lie about little, and she had already revealed her skipping classes, with little to no regret. I don't think she would think about lying in her condition. And I'm sure she wouldn't lie to me."
"Wait," said John.
Sherlock's footsteps slowed. "Did you not notice? Her look? What she was about to ask before the nurse entered?"
John's realisation slowly came, and he made a noise of exasperation. "Why are you so self-centered?"
"It's just fact."
"But she…" John made another noise. "How do you know she, well, if, she liked you and, uh, not me?"
"I just do," said Sherlock, and continued without another word on that subject.
"Anyways," he said (with a pointed look when John opened his mouth), "Either Molly really did just fall in accidentally, or she was mind-wiped. Not many students are able to cast this spell without mistakes, but, as you well know, the ones who can, are the ones most likely to.
"The centaur's footprints, and Molly's, match with their description of the events, and as I said then, the times do too. But anyways."
"I viewed the fire-seed bush at the angle that matched the mark Molly made when she supposedly fell, but didn't see anything that would make the oval burn. Then you, Watson, pointed out that little pile of ash in the corner, which I can say now was very vital to the case.
"I collected some of the ash, as you remember, and my studies showed two things: one, pearl dust, which I will get to later. And the other: the powdery ash, you see, it used to be an ashwinder."
"Er, sorry, what?"
Sherlock made an impatient noise. They had somehow exited the school one point or another, and the two were now taking a stroll around the castle of Hogwarts. John glanced at the leaf-ridden ground, crunching as many as he could, before casting his eyes back up to Sherlock.
"Ashwinders are snake-like creatures that rise from dying magical fires, where they slither into a corner to lay their eggs and die into dust, or ash, within an hour. Now you know."
"So far, we know the fire died, and an ashwinder rose from the embers and laid its eggs in the corner. The eggs could've re-lit the fire, but that does not explain Molly's burns. It seems she was burned by one of the eggs, and it wasn't by accident—the mark was on her arm, and not on the right angle for her to fall onto it. Therefore we can assume somebody had used the burning egg as a weapon, or self-defense, we do not know yet. Following?"
John nodded. "Following."
Sherlock smiled. "Good. What happened next was a stroke of luck. As I went to bed, I found something wedged in the bottom of my shoe. A rose thorn."
"O…kay," John said as Sherlock turned to give John that "the case is coming together" look. "So?"
"A rose thorn, John. A type of rose that does not grow near that area of the forest. I even tracked down Molly's steps—she did not go anywhere near those roses."
"So Molly had roses."
"No," said Sherlock, "She did not. Her footprints hadn't strayed from the path, and if she had been carrying them they would've burned in the fire. This rose thorn had no trace of scorching."
"Okay, okay," said John, practically bouncing as he walked. "So now what?"
"Well," said Sherlock with a smile. "Why don't you summarise for us?"
"Er… alright. So Molly entered the cave, where she presumably was burnt with… someone, carrying—or, floating or something—the eggs. That person was also holding, um, roses… and, oh, right, um, pearl dust, too. And she, or he, to hide her identity, or her purpose or doing, then… pushed her into the fire and wiped her memories?" John added uncertainly.
"Well, that's what we think," said Sherlock breezily. "But overall correct."
"So far, you know that much, but I knew more. Rose thorns, ashwinder eggs, and pearl dust—now, isn't that a strange combination? Not if you've been paying attention in Potions, which I presume you haven't."
John gave a little pout.
"Rose thorns, frozen ashwinder eggs, and pearl dust are vital ingredients to a love potion."
"Ohhh," said John. "Getting dramatic here."
"I have the advantage of knowing almost everyone in Hogwarts, and we've narrowed down the suspects: a wizard strong enough to keep a hovering charm and use it to their advantage in attack or defense, is strong enough to create a memory charm, and who is… let's say, determined, enough to cover their tracks, enough to push a girl into a fire."
"I had a vague idea, but needed some time. Whoever created the potion would realise I was on their tracks, and would need to do whatever they needed to do fast. Another method would be to wait until the metaphorical dust had settled, but from what they did to Molly, I can assume they're pretty impatient.
"The next stage was very, very easy, and very, very lucky. The porridge—it was laced with love potion. The scent was masked the best they could, but I could smell it. Obviously."
"But… so why did you drink it?!" shouted John incredulously, remembering that day, how Sherlock practically chugged the bowl of its contents.
"Well…" Sherlock shrugged. "Love potions do have an effect of the drinker being slightly… addicted."
John groaned and Sherlock grinned.
"Thankfully, I've had experience with love potions before, don't ask, please, and I know I'm strong enough to stay at least a tad, say, lucid during its effective stage. I simply had to play along."
"So you drugged yourself on purpose."
"You could say that."
"And then the suspect was clear."
Sherlock paused dramatically, and John's breath stilled, the fog of his breath fading away into the sky.
"Irene Adler."
"Ah," John said shortly. "Should've guessed, I suppose."
Sherlock nodded. "Anyways.
"Immediately I felt quite infatuated, and I have to say…" he grimaced, "it was rather easy to play along. Especially considering…" he dashed out a quick wink, and John's face flushed, despite the brisk evening air.
"Anyways," John prompted, trying to hide his fluster, rather unconvincingly.
"Anyways. Irene and I, we took a little stroll around Hogwarts—rather strange, aren't we, skipping classes without a care—and she revealed her reason." Sherlock sighed. "Incredibly plain. I was almost disappointed when she asked. Not even dramatic. Password to Mycroft's office."
"Ohhhh," John said, dawning upon. "Clever."
"Not as much as I wanted," Sherlock muttered, and John couldn't help but giggle at how disappointed he looked. Really!
"So you denied, laughed in her face, revealed your true identity, and strode away."
Sherlock looked away, not knowing whether to smile or scowl. "I wish. Not my fault," he mumbled. "Her potion skills have improved over the years."
"I told Anderson to follow me after breakfast. He was more than happy to do so, with a bribe of a referral to Mycroft—if only he knew my referrals almost always give the person a smaller chance." Sherlock snorted. "He almost betrayed; I had to stare him down before he jumped out of the bushes."
"In fact," Sherlock added, stopping his steps, "these ones here. See—" he pointed at a rather large… bald spot on the bushes.
John imagined Anderson erupting from the leaves, panting, accusing finger pointed at Irene, and snickered.
"Anyways," Sherlock said again, starting up his stride once more, "he accused Adler of drugging me, she denied it, and I was too drugged to do anything. We all took this particular path and had a nice little chat."
"If Irene didn't have her blackmail, she would've been expelled on her first day. In the end, there was no hard evidence of her injuring Molly, even with my clues. We settled on a good forty points deducted from Slytherin, and we all went on our own ways."
"Oh, and one more thing—it wasn't a one-man army. Turns out, you've given both yourself and I another enemy."
"Good 'ol Charlie," chirped John sardonically, after a moment of thought.
"Mm-hmm. They've teamed up. I wouldn't be surprised if they've begun dating. You weren't completely correct that day; Irene does like cowards—they're so easy to manipulate."
"That's dark."
"She's dark."
John hummed with thought, as they entered the castle.
"That's all there is. Irene's attempt to use me as a pawn." Sherlock spoke these words lightly, and yet there was a sharpness to his tone that implied anything but.
"And there's the end of your first mystery," pronounced Sherlock grandly as they walked back down the halls, "they're never quite this simple; there were many, many strokes of luck in this particular one. I suppose Irene's family's gotten in quite a bind; she left behind a perfect trail of breadcrumbs."
They had now stopped at the familiar crossroad where John would turn to his common room, and Sherlock to his, the place where, unconsciously, John found the two always stalling, stopping, here, for just a little while more.
"Still a rather fine mystery, if you ask me," murmured John with a yawn.
Sherlock smiled, softly, and they each walked to their dorms for a well-deserved night's sleep.
"Let me in!"
"Hey!"
"Stop it!"
"Quit pushing!"
John winced as he eyed the crowd of Quidditch players, complaining and shouting in one big pile, hands scrabbling over the list, trailing down, looking for their names. People groaned, people muttered, others cheered and whooped.
Some smarter, more talented wizards simply watched from a distance, wands a twirl and eyes fixated.
John watched. No wand. He fiddled his fingers, picking at his cuticle, biting his lip. Not joining the swarm of bodies.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock hummed in answer.
"You gonna go check?"
He snorted. "Nope," he said, clicking the "p".
John furrowed his brow and frowned. A moment of silence as the two waited, both for the other to speak. John gave in first, as usual, and sighed. "Care to tell me why?"
"You made it, and Charles, and Zachary, and some more; and Mike and I, along with some others, did not."
John gave Sherlock an exasperated look, not even absorbing the information, nor celebrating. "I suppose you've, ah, used an enlarging spell?"
"No."
Another silence, and this time, Sherlock lost.
He smiled, askew. "Snuck a peek at her clipboard."
"Oh. Fair enough." John shrugged and then smiled, and then looked at Sherlock and frowned. "Sorry you didn't make it."
Sherlock huffed. "I didn't want to make it anyways."
John stifled a smirk. "Sure."
Author's Note: I didn't want this case to stretch on, as it's my first attempt at this type of "case writing", so apologies for the poorly-written mystery case. I hope you still enjoyed the chapter, though! To everyone who reviewed; I thank you with all my heart.