Warning: Mentions of suicide.

Chapter Fourteen

Curiosity Killed the Cat

"So why exactly are you reading a potions book when you've finished your assignment?" John asked, glancing up from his potions essay to stare at Sherlock who was reading through a completely unrelated potions book.

"They're interesting," this earned him an incredulous look and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They are," he said going back to his book.

John shook his head. "I don't see how, I like to avoid reading my potions book unless I absolutely have to."

"Gryffindors as a general rule tend to avoid potions as much as possible, you don't have the patience or skill for it."

"Thanks," John muttered sourly. Sherlock looked up from his book, and smiled slightly. "Well if you are so good at potions, why do yours keep exploding? You've exploded as many as anyone else has."

Which was true. "I'm experimenting, most of you blow things up because you have no idea what you are doing, or don't follow the rules properly. I purposely don't follow the rules or add different ingredients to see what happens. Experimenting."

"Why?"

"It's interesting."

There was a few moments of silence before John asked the next question. "Made any head way with the attacker?" There had been no new attacks, and no new evidence but the note writer kept dropping hints which were no use to Sherlock. According to the note writer it was a Slytherin, it might not be, he didn't exclude the possibility that it wasn't, and he'd been paying more attention to his house mates. To no avail.

"Not yet," he said with a sigh and a frown, placing the book down. "I don't understand how the person isn't noticed. How do you go around attacking students without it being noticed. Especially at the night, when students aren't meant to be out of bed."

"Like that stops anyone," John muttered.

Sherlock inclined his head in agreement. "Yes, but still."

John nodded.

"Mr Holmes?" John jumped, but Sherlock just turned his attention to the teacher that had walked up to their table. "Could I have a word?"

Sherlock had his aha! moment as he stared at the teacher, his earlier question answering itself. "Of course," he said standing up and gathering his books. "I'll see you another time Watson."

John nodded, who after a glance at the teacher had gone back to his essay. "See you," he said frowning at what he had written, he wasn't sure how much sense it made.

Sherlock slinging his bag onto his back followed Professor Hope out of the library, his mind whirling. Teachers had free reign to be anywhere at any time without being noticed. His lip curled at the corner, it all made sense now. He eyed the Professor and thought that he was probably a Slytherin, when the note writer had said so, he wasn't referring to someone currently a student. And Professor Hope had been outside that classroom.

They didn't stop outside the library but continued through the hallways. No one paid them any mind, there wasn't anything strange with a student seen trailing behind a teacher through the school.

They ended up on the sixth floor, and at a classroom Sherlock had not been inside before. It was an empty part of the school at this time of the evening. Before he entered the room, out of the corner of his eye he saw the painted depiction of Severus Snape flit through the portraits, back down the way that Sherlock had come.

"Mr Holmes?" Sherlock glanced back to Professor Hope, who had opened the door and was gesturing for Sherlock to enter.

"And why should I enter?" Sherlock drawled, because he knew that he was likely to be attacked inside the room, because that is what happened to Wilson and Phillimore. Although there was no evidence of a struggle.

"Because aren't you curious?" And that was reason enough, because if anything Sherlock was, he wanted to know the reasons, the motives, and why. He'd thought about them constantly, about what reasons someone would have to attack two unrelated students.

Sherlock inclined his head and stepped into the room, Professor Hope shut the door behind him and Sherlock couldn't help but glance back at it, wondering if this was a good idea. No it's not, he thought immediately after, but he didn't turn around and leave.

Professor Hope moved a seat so that they were opposite each other across a table, and the duo sat. Sherlock watching the teacher carefully, he thought maybe the motives would have been easier to pick up once he knew who it was. But he was still as confused as he had been before.

"People are talking about you Mr Holmes," the Professor said watching him. "Both teachers and students alike. No one has inspired such interest in a student since Harry Potter, and you have no defeated a dark lord. But still, curious." Sherlock was silent. "Though where Potter's interest was positive, yours appears to be mainly negative. The students think you are the attacker, some of the staff agree with them. Those who don't think that, don't have a high opinion of you either, rude, obnoxious," he listed with a wave of his hand. "Doesn't listen, constantly picking on people. It goes on."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Why are you attacking people?"

The Professor raised an eyebrow. "Ignoring my comments are we Holmes?"

"They're irrelevant."

"Are they?"

"Answer my question."

"Answer mine."

Sherlock frowned, he did not care to talk about himself, he wanted to know the reason why students were being attacked. Why he might be. Probably would be, now that the attacker had revealed himself. "Yes, it is irrelevant, it has nothing to do with what is happening here."

"Doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you here? If you had nothing to do with this, then why did I reveal myself to you? When I could have continued going on without it. You weren't getting any closer, even if you had discovered the methods," he inclined his head. "Congratulations on that Mr Holmes, I was surprised."

"You want glory, and acknowledgement for what you have done, you can't own up to anyone else because you'll be stunned and arrested before you can blink," once they knew who was attacking the students the teachers would not have followed him to see where he would lead them, but would have stunned him immediately. "You don't think you have any danger of that from me, why would you? I'm only a first year. But you're aware that I've been paying attention to the attacks, and trying to unravel them. So you can gloat to me, before you do whatever you do."

Professor Hope raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. "If you had lived till you were older you would be magnificent, your mind is still developing, you are still young." Sherlock wondered if that meant that everyone was going to be twice as boring, he hoped not.

"For your brains you aren't very clever," Sherlock pointed out, ignoring again the comments about himself. He did not need to be told what he was like, or would be like by this stranger.

"Oh?"

"Yes, oh. You're planning to kill me, obviously, or you wouldn't be telling me anything. But killing a suspect isn't very clever, gives people one less option to blame. They aren't slow enough that the answer will elude them forever."

The Professor smirked. "Oh no Mr Holmes, I've thought about that. It is going to seem a suicide," he leaned forward closer to the younger Slytherin boy. "That you realised what you were doing, that you were hurting people. And you took your life because of it."

Clever, Sherlock couldn't help but think in spite of everything else. If it worked it was a good plan, though it meant you couldn't attack any more people, but with the cure discovered there was little reason to anyway.

"You came to your senses once you attacked the Phillimore boy, realised what you had been doing, once you were found next to him. So you told the headmistress how to cure them, to redeem yourself. But it was not enough."

"You are missing an important point."

"Am I?"

"Getting me to kill myself, without incriminating yourself. There can't be any sign of a struggle."

"There won't be." There was such a strong lack of doubt in his voice that it made Sherlock raise an eyebrow, killing someone to make it look like they did it themselves was no easy feat. "A pureblood like yourself, you must have heard of the unforgiveables, or at least the imperio curse."

Despite himself Sherlock's eyes widened, and under the table his hand clenched around his wand. That was why there had never been any sign of a struggle, the victims had in fact taken the powder themselves.

"Well," Sherlock said, attempting to keep his voice level. He wasn't too sure how well he succeeded. "How am I going to kill myself then? Jump off the astronomy tower? Fall down all seven flights of stairs?"

"No, you'll slit your wrists, and take the torpet puluere powder. Immobilised as you bleed to death. No one will find you in time." At this, he took out both a sharp knife and a small clear vile full of white powder and placed them on the table.

Sherlock's mind was whirling, trying to come up with suggestions to get out of this predicament. His main one at the moment was attempting to get him off of his guard and run for his life until he was in a more populated area, or even out into the hall where the portraits would be able to see him.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why?"

"Yes, why. Why are you attacking students, what do you get out of it?"

"I was told to."

Sherlock blinked. Thinking about it, the answer shouldn't have surprised him in the least. A lot of people attacked others because somebody else had told them too. He had just expected the reason to be a bit more personal. "By who?"

"It doesn't matter to you."

"I'd like to know why I'm going to die."

There was a few moments of silence. "It was a test. For you, before you ask. To see whether you'd unravel it. You got halfway there, but I was told to finish you off. So here we are."

"By who?" he asked yet again.

"None of your concern Mr Holmes."

"I want to know who is trying to kill me."

"Brook."

"Brook who?"

"Your time has come Mr Holmes. Let's stop these questions."

Sherlock tightened his grip on his wand, and had only just raised when a disarmer went his way and sent it flying. Sherlock's eyes watched it fly, and he cursed and dove for it. A second expelliarmus hit the wand and sent it skittering further. Sherlock got to his feet and turned to Professor Hope, whose wand was now turned on him.

Review or Sherlock dies. (This is me holding a ransom, oblige yeah? Nevermind that I couldn't kill him.)