A Study in Magic
by Books of Change
Warning/Notes: This is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline has been shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender has changed for the sake of the plot. The story was planned and written before season 2 (but incorporating elements of thereof as much as possible). Readers beware!
Chapter Thirty Five: The Heart of the Matter
"So from a scale of one to ten, how wretched do you feel?"
That was the first thing Watson said to Severus when he appeared in 221B the day after the utter debacle of a Quidditch match twenty-four hours previous, and Potter's second subsequent fainting spell following a exposure to the Dementors, which of course led to a panic attack and a second trip back to London. Watson gave him a once over, directed him to sit, and went to the kitchen to make an herbal infusion that smelled strongly of chamomile.
"Isn't that a leading question?" asked Severus, taking a seat.
"It's not if you're eliminating the stupid," Watson replied, handing over the cup of hot liquid smelling chamomile to Severus. "You can't tell me you're okay, because you're obviously not. When was the last time you slept without a sleeping aid of some sort?"
"I'm not your patient."
"No, I'm your friend."
Severus exhaled slowly through his nose. There was no doubt Watson belonged to the resolutely and inflexibly moral species of human and yet, unlike others of the kind, Severus wasn't left gasping and bleeding raw at the constant disapproval of his disinclination (and inability) to meet their moral standards. He, frankly, didn't get Watson's limits. Where did the mercy end and where did the condemnation start? All he knew for sure was that Watson's enjoyment of his company and interest in his wellbeing were quite genuine. As Holmes once said, Watson had no talent for 'fibbing'.
"So what's up?" Watson asked.
"We are no further in catching Black than we were before," Severus grumbled. "The Dementors are no help. Not that it surprises me much. Why would they care if Black is captured or not so long as they have human prey to absorb all things good and positive from?"
"So you prowl around the castle and grounds doing their job for them," drawled Holmes, eyeing Severus in that penetrating fashion that never failed to grate him. "No wonder you're having trouble sleeping. Should we start worrying about your sanity?"
"I have my way of fighting Dementors," said Severus haughtily.
"Of course you do," said Watson, deadpan. "You're obviously doing a great job. Keep at it, Snape, but be careful. I'd hate to lose my second favourite tit."
Severus felt a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth. "Who is the first?"
Watson pointed at Holmes, who looked very pleased at himself.
Severus huffed. "So to business: What do you know about Sirius Black and how far are you in your investigation?"
"You assume we're investigating it."
"Don't be coy, Holmes."
Holmes shrugged. "Hard to conduct an investigation when you refuse to let us view the crime scene and scrub it down before you even let us know there was a crime."
"I see," Severus sniffed. "What is your child's status?"
"Five on the trauma scale. If it doesn't go down to a three by this evening, we're taking him to his old therapist."
"What is a five?"
"Persistent nightmares and insomnia, and accidental magic exploding objects in the flat on an hourly basis."
As though on cue, the human skull on the mantelpiece flew off of its resting place after a small localized explosion. Sighing, Watson scooped up the skull, which sported many cranial fractures, and placed it back on the mantelpiece where the mirror on the back was similarly cracked in many places.
"If that is a five, I shudder to think of what is a ten," Severus declared.
"You don't want to see it," said Watson darkly. "Trust me."
Severus huffed and took a sip from his mug. The tea tasted flat and almost sour to his palate, so Severus pulled a face. He had just enough manners not to comment on it, just the same way he knew better than to voice his sneering thoughts:
What a weakling; dwelling in sad memories and painful recollections like all those who can't control their emotions and put their heart on their sleeves…
"Shut up," growled Holmes abruptly, "You're wrong."
It would figure Holmes could read his mind without the benefit of magic. "What am I wrong about?"
"You think Harry is weak, mediocre and useless just like his father," Holmes spat. "You're wrong."
"Perhaps it is you who is wrong," Snape drawled.
"Please," Holmes sneered. "Your puerile attitude towards Harry is pathetically easy to understand. Humans are depressingly visual creatures. Even if your rational mind is whispering the contrary, your eyes tell you the child is the same as the father, and recalls all those oh-so-hateful childhood memories. Obvious. That you have never overcome those experiences are clear from your determination to catch Black and ruin Lupin. It's personal. It's about revenge. Again, obvious. There could be nothing else, not for a bully like you."
Severus did his best to hide any reaction against Holmes's cruelly accurate insights.
"And don't bother to deny it—it takes a truly dedicated sort of malice to make Jacqueline lash out."
Now that was an interesting turn of reasoning. Severus admitted that he had no good excuse for his hurtful jabs at Ms. Shin except for the fact her forgiving disposition and shrinking demeanour made her easy prey for his bad moods. At least, he thought so until Ms. Shin, for the second time, stated that his empathy bordered on mind-reading after he snubbed her explanation of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) yesterday in the staffroom. Naturally Severus used Legilimency to see if she was hinting what he thought she was hinting, or was merely showing a hitherto unknown sarcastic streak.
He didn't see any thoughts. Instead he had a vision of himself staring down a bottomless abyss, in which an unspeakable creature of horror, possessing neither proper form nor substance, writhed out for a second before it retreated back into the darkness. Despite the fact he should've only seen images at most, not at the level of Legilimens he was performing, Severus heard an unholy, inhuman screech echo from the black pit in that vision.
Severus left the staffroom shortly afterwards, completely shaken. Even now, the recollection made him suppress a shudder. What in Merlin's name was that?
But now was not the time to ruminate over the matter.
"I'm disappointed, Holmes," Severus mocked. "Your reasoning is standing on very shaky ground. Could it be you are losing your touch?"
Severus knew he struck hard, because Holmes' gaze turned into twin blades of steel.
"How old were you when you nosed into Lupin's secret?" asked Holmes in a low, dangerous voice. "How angry were you when Dumbledore decided Lupin's education and wellbeing was more important than your continued existence? Hmm?"
Severus said nothing, but couldn't help but glare venomously at Holmes.
"You're not a subtle man, Snape," Holmes continued relentlessly, his voice like a knife wrapped in velvet. "Even children can tell you have a grudge against Lupin. You tried your best to get back at James Potter and eventually you noticed a suspicious pattern in one of his friends. You investigated and eventually encountered. Did someone give you a hint? Yes, someone did. Did he suggest to you where to look and when? Was that incident how James Potter ended up saving your life? Are you, even now, convinced Lupin was in the scheme? Doesn't matter either way, does it? I'd rather be surprised if you don't see the memory of the incident flashing before your eyes whenever you get close to the Dementors…"
"I see why Watson calls you a tit," Severus spat. "What I do not see is why Watson hasn't severed all ties with you years ago if this is the way you treat your 'friends'."
"Don't presume," Holmes snapped viciously. "I don't have friends. Neither do you."
Severus was inching towards his wand when a loud scraping noise interrupted him.
Watson was marching towards the exit. At the doorway, Watson stopped and drew several deep breaths, clutching the frame. Watson's entire body was shaking in a deeply alarming way and the head was bowed.
"…Right," said Watson in an unsteady voice. "Sherlock, I'm going to assume this is your twisted idea of defending Harry. Snape, for you I'm going to assume you're at the end of your tether because of the Dementors and what they keep making you remember."
Severus held his breath. From the corner of his eye, he could tell Holmes was doing the same.
"If…" the tears in Watson's voice were unmistakable now, "If you can't … give me evidence for my… assumptions then tell me to leave. I'll make sure I won't bother you again."
The silence that followed lay heavily in flat, like so much poison gas.
Severus remained frozen where he stood, unable to think of what he ought to do or say. He knew better than to make promises to be 'nicer'. He would make them, try to keep them, but break them when the next rage-inducing incident occurred. What was the point, then? Even now he was deriving perverse and sick pleasure at the prospect of Potter returning to a broken home by the end of term. He and nice just didn't mix.
The silence stretched.
Holmes looked down and worked on his jaw. His full lips were pursed into a thin line. Perhaps it was Severus' imagination, but he looked distinctly pained.
"I've overstepped my boundaries. Forgive me," said Holmes, not looking up.
…
…
…Severus realized he was shocked.
The apology's existence was surprising enough, but the remorse behind it—it sounded real. Clearly Holmes was a better actor than he gave him credit for.
… or he was a better man.
Watson exhaled deeply.
"Don't talk to me right now," Watson snarled. "I'll let you know when it's safe. Snape, your silence is honest enough for me. Now get out. No Christmas presents for you, but I'll send a card. Check your mail."
And with that, Watson went away.
Severus Disapparated shortly afterwards. In his haste to remove himself from the premises, he brought Watson's mug with him.
At least, Severus thought dully as he stared at the iron gates of Hogwarts, he had an answer to the mystery that gnawed on him for the last two years. Why did Watson let him get away with so much? Other concerned parents would've raked him over the coals long ago. The answer was: he wasn't. Watson was simply bending over backwards to accommodate him as a friend.
When was the last time someone was willing to do that for you?
Holmes was right; neither of them had friends.
They only had one.
-oo00oo-
Sherlock was seated in his customary leather chair, eyes closed and arms on the rests. The weak, early November afternoon sunlight filtered through the double windows. Aside from the rumble of car engines from the streets, the muffled footsteps from the flat below, water dripping from a tap somewhere and small explosions from upstairs, it was still and silent inside 221B. Sherlock was as immobile as rest of the objects inside the living room; it was as though he became as lifeless as they.
His first movement in hours was that of opening his eyes when his mobile phone chirped. Without checking the phone, he gracefully rose to his feet and strode upstairs to the second floor. He didn't pause to acknowledge the ruined chest of drawers on the mid-landing or the shattered picture frames or the burnt wallpaper on his way up.
Sherlock paused at the bedroom door made to look like a blue police box. It was slightly ajar. Rather than entering, he peered through the crack.
The room inside looked like someone lobbed a crate full of grenades and detonated them one by one. Smoking craters decorated the walls, the posters were singed, the wardrobe in the corner and bedside table were both listing to the side, and the desk was more or less caput. The only piece of furniture that was left miraculously intact was the book case; despite evidence of several explosions that occurred in very close proximity, the case was entirely free of damage. The two people inside the room were also quite unscathed, if tired-looking. One of them was asleep, face-down, and other was sitting next to the bed, running a hand through the sleeping one's hair.
Sherlock drew the door completely open.
John looked back. Harry didn't wake up from the exhausted sleep he'd fallen into. Sherlock stood at the doorway.
"Are we good?" he asked.
"We're good," said John, "You and Snape, absolutely not."
Sherlock relaxed his tense shoulders. "I shan't cry over it."
"No, I don't suppose you will."
Sherlock padded noiselessly inside the bedroom. He took the spare chair, placed it next to John's and sat on it. John leaned in as soon as he did so, resting her head on his shoulder.
They sat like that for a long time.
"So how is the second great break-in to Hogwarts going?" asked John.
"The previous co-conspirator is not amenable, nor has an appropriate excuse for the kind of trip we require."
"So we move onto plan B. How is the prospective co-conspirator?"
"Extremely resistant."
"But he's coming around. He doesn't even flinch at the MMN phones anymore."
"That wasn't the person I had in mind, but the possibility is intriguing."
"Wait, you were talking to Jack?"
John sat straight to stare at Sherlock. Sherlock gave John the 'are you stupid' look.
"Dementors are not fooled by disguises because they sense people through their emotions. So, even if we borrow Harry's invisibility cloak, the Dementors would still sense our presence if we use a legitimate entry way. All Floo-network connections to Hogwarts from the outside have been shut down because of Black. Therefore, we must find the secret passageway through which Black had accessed Hogwarts this past Hallowe'en. For this, Jacqueline is more than adequate for the job."
John frowned. "Why do you think he used a secret passageway?"
"It is public knowledge Filch the caretaker knows 'all' the secret passageways. Implication: multiple secret passageways exist in Hogwarts, most of which are known to one person or another. Hogwarts has security measures that disallow entry via flying and Apparition, and Hogwarts is temporarily disconnected from the Floo-network. Therefore the way to enter is physical entry by foot. We know from last year it is foolish to think someone has exhaustive knowledge of Hogwarts—be it the headmaster or caretaker."
"Chamber of Secrets, case in point; therefore a secret passageway Sirius Black knows about, but Filch and Dumbledore doesn't know or does know but thinks is unusable must exist," said John thoughtfully.
"But House-elves can vanish and reappear inside the castle," Harry said. "What if he's using a House-elf to enter?"
Sherlock and John turned to stare at him. Harry blinked up from where he was previously thought to be sleeping.
Sherlock let out a guttural sigh, "Obscure first-hand knowledge. I knew it would throw off my reasoning."
"Don't you have to own a House-elf for them to follow your orders?" said John, smiling. "Somehow I doubt Black owns one of the Hogwarts elves. And what if this only works for the elves and not for people?"
"Oh yeah…"
Sherlock sighed again.
"Might as well get this over with," he said. "Harry, this part of the case is, as they say, your game."
Harry raised his head and propped himself up low on his elbows. "But—"
"In terms of knowledge of Hogwarts, yours will always be greater than mine," said Sherlock, sounding rueful. "You live there. You've walked through the halls, explored the corridors and spoken with the denizens. You've even made a serviceable map! Moreover, you can ask people who have greater knowledge than you and explore the castle yourself. You just have to realize the possibilities. Can you tell me off-hand the persons who may know more about the secret passageways in Hogwarts than Filch?"
"…Fred and George," Harry said slowly. "The House-elves. The ghosts."
"Precisely. You already know this. It is a matter of using that knowledge. So ask. Learn more. Work your way through. Think. Don't worry about your reasoning. You're quite proficient. I'll review your results as needed. Remember, your purpose is learning everything you can about the layout of Hogwarts and finding ways Black could enter."
Harry nodded slowly. He looked so incredibly uncertain—but excited. So excited.
"But don't go alone," John warned. "Just your friends aren't enough, though you definitely want them around. Ask Hagrid to go along with you, or someone else equally suitable."
Harry looked up in thought. "What about Miss Jackie?"
Sherlock and John looked at each other in askance.
"I don't, ahem, doubt she can develop a hand-held weapon of mass destruction given enough time and motivation, but I think you want someone who has a bit more firepower and favorable attitude towards physical activities," said John.
Harry tilted his head curiously.
"Jack thinks exercise is a swear word," John explained. "Even hearing it makes her, I quote, want to wash her mouth out with chocolate."
Harry chuckled in amusement. "But she likes taking long walks with me."
"Apparently that's not exercise. No, I don't understand it either."
Harry laughed. "Okay, maybe not Miss Jackie then. I want to though. She's good at making the ghosts talk."
"A second escort, then. Maybe Lupin? He sounds very competent."
"I'll ask," said Harry, sighing a bit. "I want to ask him about the Dementors, anyway."
"Good thinking," said Sherlock, nodding in approval. "There is bound to be methods to fight them."
Harry smiled and turned over to lie on his back. John drew the duvet up to his nose.
"When do I have to go back to Hogwarts?" Harry mumbled under the covers.
"Not today," said John gently.
Harry closed his eyes and exhaled in relief.
-oo00oo-
Several hours previous, the Gryffindor house Quidditch team congregated at their house table at around dinner time. All faces to a person looked grim. Their fellow Gryffindors and friends from other houses, particularly the younger ones from third-year down, looked equally worried.
"John said they might keep him up to a week," said Ron, clutching his magical mobile phone so hard it was leaving indents on his palm.
"I'm not surprised," said Fred Weasley grimly. "It took him two days to recover from one Dementor. This time there were hundreds of them and he fell from—what—fifty feet?"
"I thought he died," said Alicia Spinnet, who was shaking. "If Dumbledore didn't slow him down before he hit the ground… if the ground wasn't so soft… he might've…"
Hermione made a squeaky noise before trying to speak again:
"I've never seen Dumbledore so angry," she said in a quaking voice. "He was absolutely furious. The way he was shouting at the Dementors for entering the grounds…"
"They definitely cleared off real quick," muttered George Weasley. "Though, it might have been the silver stuff he was shooting at them…"
A pause.
"Harry's coming back," Oliver Wood muttered in a low voice. "And we won the match, even though we're only twenty points ahead. That's good news. But if the Dementors come to the next one … I mean, McGonagall might actually put him on reserve. I'd hate to replace him. He's the best Seeker I've ever seen."
"He'll figure something out, Oliver," said Angelina soothingly. "He's pretty resourceful."
"And Harry's the best spell-caster in his year!" piped Colin Creevey.
The Gryffindors talked a bit more after the food appeared. The handful of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs who'd come over left to join their house-mates. Eventually most of the students cleared off from the Great Hall, to do whatever else they had in mind.
Three third years and two second years stayed behind in the nearly empty Great Hall to discuss something that had been bothering them for a very long time.
"Why do Dementors affect him so badly?" asked Ginny Weasley. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked white under her freckles. "I mean they're horrible—absolutely horrible—but … why?"
"Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," murmured Julia Lestrade.
Everyone looked at her.
"Aunt Jackie said it's probably Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," said Julia.
"Why? What is it?" asked Neville Longbottom.
Julia took a glass cup from the table.
"Say this is your capacity to absorb stress," she said. "You go through your day and stressful things happen— Quidditch practice, homework, classes, a teacher yelling at you—and each time your cup gets fuller and fuller."
Julia took the water pitcher and started pouring water into the glass. When it was almost full, she stopped.
"When your cup overflows," she said, dropping a fork into the glass and thus splattering water, "You blow up. But this is for normal people. For people who have PTSD, it's different."
Julia dumped the water in the glass back into the pitcher. She took several dinner rolls and stuffed it into the glass until it was almost 70% full.
"This is what it looks like for a person who has PTSD," said Julia. "The stress cup is already almost full and you can't just dump the cup contents. It's stuck there."
Hermione nodded. "So they blow up quicker for small reasons, because there isn't a lot of space left."
"But Harry doesn't have a short temper," Neville protested.
"Different people have different size cups," reasoned Hermione. "Maybe Harry's is a lot bigger than others. Anyway, when he does explode, it's over small stuff and they're pretty spectacular."
"But this still doesn't explain what happens to him with the Dementors," said Ron.
"Yes, it does," said Hermione. "Getting close to a Dementor is like—like using a high-pressure water hose to fill your stress cup: too much all at once. I wouldn't be surprised the PTSD put hairline cracks on the walls."
"But that happens to everyone," argued Ron. "Why only Harry so badly?"
"The cup model is just one picture," said Julia as she rummaged her tote bag. "Here is another picture Aunt Jackie doodled for me. I think this explains it better."
She put onto the table a white sheet of paper that had two illustrations. On the left hand side the illustration was titled 'Normal', and the one on the right was titled 'PTSD'. Both sides had a mammalian brain drawn over the words 'recognises memory'. On the left side there was a small circle that was labelled 'bad memory trigger'. There was a long wiggly arrow that started from the circle and ended at the brain, taking many twisting turns before it did. The right side had a long curved trapezium (1), also labelled 'bad memory trigger'. The arrow connecting the trapezium to the brain was straight, short, thick and black.
"When you remember something, there's usually a trigger," Julia explained. "Muggles call it stimulus. Like, the smell of butter reminds you of toast. Cake reminds you of birthdays. The colour of the sea triggers memories of a holiday at the beach. That's for good memories. For bad memories it's a bit different. People instinctively suppress bad memories even when there is a trigger because it's unpleasant. So when Dementors triggers all the bad memories, they come up one by one, stronger one first."
Everyone nodded in understanding.
"The problem with PTSD is that your ability to suppress bad memories is weak," said Julia softly. "Anything can trigger it. And when it does trigger, you short-circuit to the bad memory. There are no pauses. So when the Dementor triggers all the bad memories—"
"—all of your bad memories come rushing in, all at once," said Hermione in hushed whisper. "It quickly becomes too much. So your brain shuts down."
"Hence the collapsing."
There was a moment of silence.
"All his bad memories," said Ron, looking bleak. "Just off the top my head, I can think too many."
"You-Know-Who," Ginny whispered.
"Surrey Zoo Bombing," Hermione said miserably.
"Foster care," Julia murmured. "It can take months—years—before a kid can settle into a family, if ever, and not all of them are good."
"Quirrell and the Basilisk," said Neville in very small voice.
"Now the Whomping Willow shattered his broom," Ron finished.
There was another moment of silence.
"What do we do?" they wondered.
-oo00oo-
Harry stayed in London for four days. He was very grateful of the time off. Central London was as far from Hogwarts and its magic as Harry could get without leaving the UK, both physically and metaphorically. 221B was small— barely enough to fill one of Hogwarts' larger classrooms— and, being a Muggle flat in the city, had no garden or growing vegetation to speak of and everyone used electronics, biros and paper here. There were only three adults around at most, and all of them were Muggles, two whom which were John and Sherlock. Harry appreciated the last one the most. It was nice not having to face well-meaning people who didn't understand what it was like asking stupid questions such as 'how are you?' or 'how are you feeling?', but have Sherlock rake his eyes over him and deduce the answers without saying a word and have John, who did know what it was like to have horrible memories lurking just behind the surface, let him forget with lots of tussling around in Regent's Park (Harry wasn't sure if he could handle flying even if his broom had survived, as much as he loved his faithful Nimbus and mourned its demise).
Harry was able to talk about what happened to him when the Dementors came to the match on Tuesday evening. He mostly recalled voices and smells: Aunt Petunia screaming at him, blaming him for the situation they were in; the high-pitched voice coming from the earpiece dictating what he should say; screams of dying people after the bomb went off at the zoo; the smell of burning human flesh, so much like over-cooked bacon. But the worst—the absolute worst—was hearing the screaming voice of his birth mother during the last moments of her life, her attempts to protect him, Harry, from Lord Voldemort, and Voldemort's laughter before he murdered her…
Harry didn't finish his disjointed summary. The lump in his throat got too large. At any rate, John crushing his face in her bosom stopped him from having to continue.
The silence that followed was only broken by the sound of John drawing long, unsteady breaths to hold back her anger—or tears. Harry looked up when John's hold loosened. John was breathing normally, but the cheeks were wet and the lips were set into a harsh line. Sherlock was standing very close without touching and his expression was like a carved limestone.
"I have to go back," whispered Harry.
"Yes," Sherlock said quietly. "Just be careful."
-oo00oo-
The Wednesday morning Harry was to return to Hogwarts dawned cold and colourless. Miss Jackie, who was going to escort him back, arrived at 221B not a minute late. Harry thought she looked grey and it wasn't just because of her clothes: except for the bleach-white blouse, she was wearing a charcoal suit, a light carbon-coloured Burberry coat, a shimmery silver circle scarf and jet-grey boots that were almost black.
"Loving the grey?" John commented.
"Yes," said Miss Jackie. "And I see your love for imitating seventy-year-old pensioners is as strong as always."
Harry thought that was a pretty nice comeback until he noticed Sherlock and John had turned rather grave.
"She's making fun of my clothes now," John muttered. "The Dementors are affecting her worse than I thought."
"What do you mean?" asked Harry, while Sherlock questioned Miss Jackie over the large iron key she was holding.
"Jackie has to go to Hogsmeade for her twice-weekly trips to London," explained John. "That's two exposures to Dementors each week. Jack usually keeps all unkind urges under tight control, but it's obviously slipping— you could qualify making fun of clothes as unkind."
Harry thought if the most Miss Jackie could manage on the unkindness scale was lightly making fun of other people's clothes, it wouldn't hurt for her to be a bit mean-spirited on occasion. He also felt sobered at the sheer amount of dedication Miss Jackie poured into meeting the small group ladies and church, and wondered what the Dementors were making her remember.
"I think you should definitely include Jack in your castle exploration trips," said John. "It would distract her from her dark philosophical thinky-thoughts. When in doubt, act like you don't understand."
"Okay," said Harry nodding.
John smiled and gave him a hug, "See you at Christmas."
Miss Jackie came over after she was done speaking to Sherlock. Sherlock, of course, just gave Harry a nod instead of any visible/audible farewells, but that was very normal.
"This is a portkey," she said, holding up the key. "In some ways, it's better—and worse—than Floo-powder. Just put your finger on it."
Harry touched the key as instructed. It felt weird doing this.
"Any moment now," said Miss Jackie, checking her watch. "One … two … three…"
Harry felt a violent forward jerk around his navel when she counted four. His feet left the ground; he could feel Miss Jackie's thin arm around his back as her bony frame kept bouncing off him; they were speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling colour; his forefinger was stuck to the key as though it was pulling him magnetically onward and then—
His feet slammed into the ground. Miss Jackie staggered into him and almost fell over. The portkey flew out of her hand and bounced off the Entrance Hall floor.
"Why does magical transport have to be so uncomfortable?" Harry complained as he helped Miss Jackie regain her balance.
"To discourage us from travelling," Miss Jackie grumbled. She then stumbled over and picked up the key. Once Miss Jackie gathered her bearings, they entered the Great Hall together.
The noise and bustle of the main school ceased for a moment as all eyes turned to Harry in shock. All except Malfoy, who started to do a spirited imitation of Harry falling off his broom at the Slytherin table, inciting a roar of laughter from his fellows. Harry was honestly expecting something worse, but then he went to primary school where the mean kids used to make sport of holding down their victims, pulling off their trousers and pants, and posting the photos of the poor victims in their skivvies from waist down on Facebook. He supposed he should be grateful Malfoy and the rest of his Slytherins lacked imagination, but it still grated him.
"Hey, Potter!" shrieked Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin girl with a face like a pug. "Potter! The Dementors are coming, Potter! Woooooooooo!"
Harry dropped into a seat next to George Weasley at the Gryffindor table, where Hermione and Neville were restraining an irate Ron. The latter three froze when they saw Harry and appeared to be driven speechless.
"Alright, Harry?" said George, passing over the porridge bowl as though Harry just showed up for breakfast as always and hadn't been absent for four days. "What's up with you, Ron?"
"Malfoy," said Ron, glaring over at the Slytherin table.
George looked up in time to see Malfoy pretending to faint with terror.
"That little git," he said calmly. "He wasn't so cocky last Saturday when the Dementors came. Couldn't get off his broomstick fast enough, didn't he, Fred?"
"Nearly wet himself," said Fred, with a contemptuous glance at Malfoy.
"I wasn't too happy myself," said George. "They're horrible things, those Dementors…"
"Sort of freeze your insides, don't they?" said Fred.
"You didn't pass out, though, did you?" said Harry in a low voice.
"Forget it, Harry," said George bracingly. "Dad had to go out to Azkaban one time, remember, Fred? He said it was the worst place he'd ever been, he came back all weak and shaking …They suck the happiness out of a place, Dementors. Most of the prisoners go mad in there."
"Anyway, we still won that last match," said Fred. "We're only twenty points ahead, mind you, but victory is still a victory. We're still in decent standing to win the Quidditch cup. Malfoy can take that and suck on it."
Malfoy had definitely come off worse both times he and Harry faced each other in a Quidditch match. After the first time, Flint, the Slytherin team captain, yelled at Malfoy for not noticing the snitch that was right on top of his head. The second time and more recently Harry beat him in the race after the Snitch despite having a head start and a better broom. Feeling more cheerful, Harry helped himself to eggs and fried tomatoes.
"You're looking a lot better," said Ron, watching Harry closely. "Did Sherlock find anything new?"
Harry told Ron, Neville and Hermione about his plan to explore the castle and find ways Black could've entered Hogwarts—a secret passageway most likely. George and Fred listened in, looking very interested.
"You're not worried about figuring out why Black wants to enter the castle anymore?" asked Hermione, peering anxiously into his face.
"Sherlock is taking care of that," said Harry. "This is something he can't do. We're going to share notes as we go."
Ron nodded. "True enough. But how are we going to do it? I don't think the teachers are going to be keen about us wandering around the castle on our own."
"Yes, it might be dangerous," said Hermione, exchanging a look with Ron. "Listen, Harry, we've been thinking—"
Harry could tell they had rehearsed the conversation to follow while he had been away. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear it.
"I'm going to ask Hagrid if he can accompany us," said Harry before Hermione could continue.
"—Oooh, good idea," said Hermione, her obvious relief overruling any annoyance over his interruption. "Anyone will think twice before they go after Hagrid."
"Better safe than sorry and all that," Ron quickly agreed.
"And the faster we solve the Black situation, the better," said Harry as he attacked his fried tomatoes. "Once we figure out how he might've got in, we can tell Dumbledore. If we're lucky, Black might get cocky and use it again. The Dementors won't have a reason to stay here once they've got him. Good riddance to both."
Everyone nodded fervently. Fred and George in particular looked very keen.
Julia came over from the Hufflepuff table.
"Had a nice break, Harry? Lots of beauty sleep?" she asked, sitting down next to Neville.
"Yes, I feel very beautiful right now," Harry replied.
Julia smiled. "I did think your skin was glow-y."
Ron sniggered.
-oo00oo-
"Three months and even knowing where he is headed you still can't find him? What kind of idiots are you?!"
Sherlock ranted as he paced furiously inside Lestrade's office. Lestrade gave John a pleading look.
"Sorry, he used up his maturity quota for the week," said John ruefully. "Better luck next time."
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: I've wondered how the Dementors affected the adults of HP. Snape, the paranoid bat bent on revenge that he is, probably did more patrols than all of the teachers combined in hopes to catch Sirius. The Floo connection shutdown is my own thing, but it made sense to me from a security standpoint. Sherlock verses Snape. So cruel. So very hurtful. I cringed over every sentence.
The explanation of PTSD is very incomplete. Jacqueline did the best she could for a precocious twelve year old without being an expert herself.
(1) trapezium: trapezoid for you US people. So much math and science in a fanfic about magic, I tell you…
The deeply annoying, but inevitable thing about writing long chapter fics is that, no matter how thoroughly you plan the plot, the actual writing often throws those careful plans straight out of the window. This chapter case in point. It was so difficult to write, and yet so, so necessary. Oh well. Perhaps I'll get to use my original plans in the future…