By the time John awoke sometime the next afternoon, the table next to his bed held a small pile of chocolates and cards. Molly had sent him one with an enormously gaudy flower that emitted a puff of cloying perfume as he picked it up. He read her get-well message, choking, and tossed the card into a garbage bin.
"Ah, awake at last," called Madam Pomfrey, bustling around to the side of his bed. "Up you are, then. Magic's done all it can; your body will do the rest." She crossed her arms, waiting impatiently as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed. A dull ache spread through his whole left side as he stood. "Those ribs will be sore for a while," the nurse told him. "And take this." She held out a small jar. "It's an ointment for your head. It'll help with the healing, but you know curse wounds tend to scar. Yours shouldn't be too bad, and your hair will help hide it, I expect." John nodded, tucking the jar into his pocket.
He scooped the gifts from the table into his schoolbag, which someone must have carried up for him. "Thank you," he said to Madam Pomfrey. She waved a hand at him, sweeping back into her office and slamming the door behind her. John shrugged, then regretted it as his bruised ribs protested. He picked up his bag slowly and left the hospital wing.
John made it to the greenhouses just in time for double Herbology with the Ravenclaws. Molly waved him over to a table strewn with small, humming beans. "How are you?" she asked anxiously.
"Sore," he answered. "Still have a bit of a headache, but I'll live."
"I don't understand," she whispered, pulling on one of the pairs of leather gloves that lay on the table. "I couldn't sleep at all last night." Her hands were shaking terribly.
"Well, I'm all right," he answered lamely. "Try not to worry. The teachers are on the lookout, I'm sure." He followed Molly's lead, tugging on a pair of gloves; in his experience with Herbology - and magic in general - being overprepared was far better than waiting a moment too long.
"But first Sherlock, and then you," she muttered, staring up at John with her massive brown eyes. "And just in a month, too. It's not right, John. It's not normal." John sighed.
"I know, Molly, but can we not talk about it for a bit? I've got a feeling I'll be recounting it quite often for a while." She nodded, then jumped in fright as Professor Longbottom lay a hand on her shoulder.
"Sorry, Molly," he said, looking concerned. "Are you all right?" She nodded, blushing red. Professor Longbottom turned to John. "How are you feeling today?"
"Not so bad anymore," John answered, shrugging, then winced, his hand raising involuntarily to his side. "Ribs are still a bit sore," he admitted. "But I'm all right."
"Glad to hear it," Professor Longbottom said. "But I will say, I don't know if you'll want to participate in class today. These Venomous Tentacula are best handled when you have a full range of bodily motion. I won't stop you, but if you try it, be careful." And with that he nodded and set off to the front of the room. John swallowed hard.
After class, John and Molly staggered out into the sunlight. Molly sported a cut across her cheekbone sustained before John's diffindo had disabled the plant, and John's ribs had moved from a dull ache to a more active throbbing centered in his right side where he'd spun into a table to avoid the Venomous Tentacula's murder attempts.
"That was...fun," Molly said, panting as she wiped a drop of blood from under her eye. "An adventure, you know." John stared at her blankly, rubbing a newly-sore wrist. "No? Well, I'm just trying to find the bright side."
In John's opinion, the only bright side was that the struggle to make it through class with all of their limbs attached had distracted his fellow Hufflepuffs enough that they hadn't been able to question him about the previous night's events, and he told Molly so. Molly shrugged.
"Well, are you up for some dinner?" As if in response, John's stomach growled noisily. He'd missed breakfast and lunch already that day. Molly cracked a smile and shouldered her bag. "Well, come on then." And they walked up to the castle together.
When they reached the Great Hall, most of the tables were filling up. "Mind if I sit with you?" Molly asked as they passed between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. She nodded toward Eddie Hastings, who was waving excitedly in John's direction. "Looks like there's room for two over there." John sighed, knowing he couldn't avoid the questions any longer.
"All right, then. Let's go."
He fielded Eddie's barrage of questions in between bites of roast beef and potatoes, rolling his eyes at some of the more ridiculous rumors that had apparently been starting. Then Eddie said something that made him put his fork down.
"I heard," the fourth-year drawled quietly, "that it was the Slytherins. Makes sense, right? What do you think?" Molly frowned as John straightened to look Eddie in the eyes.
"Why on earth would you think that?" Eddie snorted.
"Oh, come on. You think they're all, what, reformed now? You know what their reputation used to be." John didn't really understand, but Molly raised a finger angrily.
"Don't you dare," she hissed at Eddie. John was taken aback; she was usually so friendly. "Don't try to pin this on them because of stuff that happened years ago - "
"Not that many years ago!" Eddie swiped at Molly's hand, knocking it out of his face and into her goblet and sending pumpkin juice into the plate of the boy sitting next to her.
"Hey, now!" John exclaimed.. "Would you calm down?" He apologized to the boy whose potatoes now floated in pumpkin juice, then turned back to Eddie. "What are you on about?"
"Come with me," a voice said from behind him. John, Molly, and Eddie turned around to see Sherlock standing there. He widened his eyes impatiently, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "Come on!" Turning, he strode away. John and Molly exchanged glances, then stood with matching sighs.
"You're just going?" Eddie asked, incredulous. "We're in the middle of a conversation, aren't we?"
"One that's going nowhere good," Molly muttered, slinging her bag onto her shoulder. She threw Eddie a withering look, despite the fact that his sitting height was almost the same as her standing, and turned on her heel to follow Sherlock. John shrugged.
"Sorry, Eddie. I'll see you in the common room later." The fourth-year rolled his eyes and waved dismissively.
John caught up with Sherlock and Molly in the entrance hall. "What's up?" he asked.
"Just saving you some time," Sherlock answered, inspecting his own thumb with calculated interest. "Hastings was about to launch into the saga of evil House Slytherin, and I can guarantee you'd be stuck there for an hour while he rambled on and exaggerated to the point of absurdity." He dropped his hand to his side and turned down the hall. John followed close behind.
"Wait a minute, now!" he called. "If I want to have a conversation with somebody, I can do it! I don't need you swooping in to save me time! Maybe I wanted to hear what he was going to say."
"It's nothing new, John," Molly scoffed. "Just the same crap people have been on about since the school was founded, practically."
"Well, I've known I'm a wizard for about a year now, so forgive me if I'm still not caught up on the last few centuries!" John exclaimed. "What kind of crap are you talking about, exactly?"
"Oh, the usual," Sherlock said flippantly, leading them up a staircase. He hopped a stair just before John's foot hit it and almost went through. "Slytherin's always had a bad reputation, and it still does. You know about Lord Voldemort, of course. That's mainly the talk the last few decades; that Slytherin's lost all its chances to prove itself. People think it ought to be done away with. They don't think any good can come out of it." John frowned.
"But that's ridiculous. People are people; it's not like getting put into a house at school is going to make them turn bad."
"Of course it's ridiculous!" Sherlock whirled around a corner. "People are ridiculous! Just because an idea is stupid doesn't mean people won't rally around it. And then they meet people like me, who they hate - " John and Molly made protesting noises, but he ignored them. " - and then something happens like it did last night and people want somebody to blame. It's not difficult to guess who they're going to go for." They reached the third floor and set off down a corridor John had never visited.
"But Sherlock," Molly protested, breaking off as the Slytherin made a 180 and nearly strode right over her. "What are you doing?"
"A moment, please," he requested, turning back and forth. John and Molly stepped back, watching in confusion as Sherlock repeated this brisk pacing. And then, suddenly, a door appeared where, John was quite sure, there had not been one before.
"What the -" John's jaw dropped.
"We go to a magical school, John," Sherlock drawled. "You'd best get used to things like this." He pushed the new door open and climbed inside. Molly followed, eyes lighting up.
"Oh, Sherlock - is this the Room of Requirement? It is, isn't it? My mum told me about it - she used to come in here and practice Defense Against the Dark Arts, she said! I've been meaning to try and find it for ages, but I've never made it up here - oh, this is wonderful!"
They had walked into a room full of scrolls. John looked around with his mouth hanging open. He imagined that there might be more scrolls here than there were books in Madame Pince's library. Enormous floor-to-ceiling shelves with little cubby compartments all filled to bursting with rolled parchment formed a dusty maze of aisles, there were boxes piled in the corners with even scrolls poking out. In the center of the room there was a very long table set with three chairs and an assortment of paperweights.
"Perfect," Sherlock murmured, rubbing his hands together eagerly. "Let's get started, shall we?"
"What on earth," John demanded, looking around again, "is this?" Molly burst eagerly into an explanation of the Room of Requirement, and John listened with growing amazement. "It's hard to believe I can learn all this and not even be surprised anymore," he remarked. "It's amazing what you get used to."
He and Molly looked up at a loud clatter. Sherlock, climbing one of the sliding ladders that lined the many tall shelves, had yanked at a scroll and sent the rest of its compartment-mates tumbling to the floor. Molly squeaked, rushing to pick them up.
"Don't bother," Sherlock called, leaping from the ladder and trodding on an unrolled piece of parchment. "I've got the one I need." Molly, muttering angrily, climbed the ladder and began stuffing the fallen items back into their cubby. She reached the one Sherlock had stepped on and attempted to rub his footprint away.
"Ruthetta Bane," she read aloud, frowning. Her voice trailed off as her eyes scanned the document. Then with another squeak she rolled up the scroll and shoved it back where it belonged. Scurrying down the ladder, she rushed over to Sherlock and jerked the scroll he was reading away. "Sherlock! Are these -"
"Student records," he answered angrily, reaching for the scroll she was holding out of his reach. "Give it back. I'm trying to do some research."
"I will not!" she exclaimed. "It - it's not right! You shouldn't have access to -"
"Research," he repeated, standing up from his chair and easily snatching the scroll out of her hands. He spread it back out on the table and replaced his paperweights. "Now stop being a bother and start reading, would you? I've prepared a list; it's in my bag. Outside pocket."
"I won't!" Molly cried indignantly. "I won't read these - these private things! And you shouldn't be in -"
"Well if you won't," Sherlock interrupted loudly without glancing up from his reading, "at least be quiet. Or leave." Molly reddened instantly.
"F-fine, then. I will leave. See if I don't." She stood there proudly for a moment, head held high, but the Slytherin didn't react. "And John will come with me." John, who had been thinking no such thing, winced.
"No he won't."
"Yes he will," she argued. "Won't you, John? You agree with me, don't you? We shouldn't be looking through -" She finally looked at the Hufflepuff, who shrugged guiltily from where he had been digging the list from Sherlock's bag. "Oh, honestly! Well, I hope you get caught and get in loads of trouble! You have no right to read whatever's in these scrolls!"
"Are you going to tell a professor on us?" John asked as she stormed towards the door. He didn't think she would, but at the moment she was so angry he almost wouldn't have been surprised. She spun around, looking even more hurt than she had a moment ago.
"Of course not! You think I would - oh!" Furious, she stomped through the door and slammed it behind her.
As soon as she was outside, the door to the Room of Requirement vanished into the wall. Instantly, Molly was ashamed of her actions. She never had been one to act on anger so forcefully. But when she tried to make the door reappear so that she could go back inside and at least tell them she didn't really want them to get caught, it was no use. The door was gone, and that was that. Doubtless Sherlock had decided that she was of no use, and therefore did not need access to his room. Sighing, Molly kicked once halfheartedly at the wall and turned back to walk towards Ravenclaw Tower.
Inside the room, John surveyed Sherlock's list, which, as he probably should have expected, was extremely long. John recognized the names of several students, but the vast majority were some he had never heard before. "Just pick one and start reading,"
"But what are we looking for?" John asked. "Who are these people?" Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh.
"Isn't it obvious?" John bristled but did not reply except with a roll of his eyes. "We're looking for information on who might have attacked either one, or both, of us. The list contains people I think may be involved, or at least may know something. Or they may know something but not know that they know it. You understand."
Not really, John thought. He scanned the list again. "But there must be fifty names here! You're telling me there are fifty people at this school who are plotting against you? You're crazy."
"Forty-seven names," Sherlock corrected him primly. "And no, I've just said, they're people who might know something, not who are necessarily involved." And with that he seemed to decide that he was done with conversation. John sighed, starting to wander through the shelves. It took John a much longer time to locate a scroll than it had taken Sherlock, but finally he found one - Humphrey Grumbling - and took it with him to the table.
"Will you at least tell me what to look for?" he asked desperately, seeing how long this was going to take. Sherlock looked up in annoyance.
"How should I know, until I find it?" He rolled up his scroll and tossed it into an empty bin near the table, then snatched John's from his hand and spreading it over the table. "Start with that one I just finished."
"But you just -"
"Well, how can you expect to see a pattern without all of the information? I mean, it can be done, of course, but not nearly so holistically." John stared at him for a moment, then sighed and picked up the scroll from the bin, unfurling it and placing weights strategically across the parchment. With an uneasy feeling of guilt in his stomach - perhaps Molly was right, and they shouldn't be doing this at all - he saw the name Roberta Bennett in script across the top of the scroll.
"Isn't this the girl who -"
"Attacked me on the train - yes, John, would you please pay attention?" Sherlock heaved an angry sigh. "If you're going to ask questions instead of actually reading you may as well leave like Molly." John flushed and bent his head angrily over the table. He was sorely tempted to follow Molly's lead; he doubted whether Sherlock would actually allow him to be of any real help in this venture, whatever it was. But he stayed and, with a guilty gulp, started to read all about Roberta Bennett.
John only made it through three scrolls that evening, but it took hours. Finally he sat back, stretching. "Sherlock, I need to go." His friend, who in the same amount of time had read nearly a dozen documents, frowned at him. "It's getting late," John reminded him, "and I've got homework to finish and more to make up from when I was in the hospital wing."
"Homework," Sherlock scoffed. "They barely give us enough to make it annoying. Just do it now."
"I don't have my stuff. My books."
"Do it from your head." John stared at him. "It should only take a few minutes."
"I have a half-meter essay to do for History of Magic. About goblins." Sherlock shrugged.
"And?"
Finally having had enough, John pushed his chair away and tossed his finished scroll into the bin under the table. "And I have to go. Good luck in here." The dark-haired boy sighed angrily, but John ignored him. "Good night." He didn't wait for an answer - he knew one would never come - but walked out shut the door behind him.
John didn't get his essay finished that night. The Hufflepuff common room was furnished with overstuffed, cushiony armchairs which, while extremely pleasant for relaxing and sipping hot chocolate, were more conducive to sleep than studying. Inevitably, John dozed off and woke up several hours later. Deciding trying any more would be pointless, he stumbled to the washroom, scrubbed ink from his face, and then made his way up to bed.
He fell almost immediately to sleep, but not before wondering whether Sherlock was still shut up in that strange room on the third floor, poring over information that certainly was never meant for his eyes. I wouldn't be surprised if he is still up there, John thought blearily. He'd never met someone so determined - or strong-willed - as Sherlock Holmes.