Sherlock had apparently engrossed himself in his work in the Room of Requirement, because John and Molly were seeing very little of him these days. After very little discussion John conceded that Molly was probably right; since neither of them were able to access the scroll room, Sherlock had most likely decided that both of them were useless in his quest for answers. John gave up pacing up and down the third-floor corridor and accepted that he was very unlikely to see Sherlock Holmes at all.
He very rarely caught a glimpse of the Slytherin in the weeks leading up to the Christmas holidays, until late one night, as John was trudging back from the library. As he wound his way down a staircase, he heard voices. One, speaking harshly but softly, sounded vaguely familiar, but the other was raised and very clearly belonged to Sherlock.
"No, I've told you - would you let go of me?" There was an enormous crash and a few angry words. John's heartbeat quickened. Was this another attack? He broke into a run and skidded around the corner to where he had thought the noises were coming from. Then he stopped, mouth creeping open as he surveyed the scene before him.
Sherlock stood with arms crossed in the center of the hallway, his bag fallen to the floor as though cast aside in anger. In front of him, extricating himself from the remains of a suit of armor, which had apparently fallen apart as he was shoved into it, was Mycroft Holmes. The elder brother was glaring openly at Sherlock.
"Don't take your anger out on me," he warned. "I'm just trying to tell you -"
"You don't need to tell me," Sherlock retorted. "Do you really think I don't already know? It's my decision, and it's been made. You can tell Mother -"
"Oh, no, I can't. I'm done, Sherlock. I'm staying out of it - out of everything - from here on out. You tell her yourself." He finally got to his feet, brushing a thick layer of dust and cobwebs off of his robes, and shook his head, glaring dangerously at his younger brother. "Good night." He shot John a look of warning as he brushed past him, and John gulped.
Sherlock picked up his bag with a sigh. "Always so dramatic," he complained with an impressive roll of his eyes. "You'd think I'd told him I was running off to study the Dark Arts in Egypt or something." He walked towards John. "Heading towards your common room?" They fell into step, John incredulous that Sherlock was so calm after the argument.
"So - what was that about?" He glanced sideways at his companion.
"I'm not going home for Christmas," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "And my parents are none too happy with me. Mycroft either, as you could probably tell." John frowned.
"Not going home? Where are you going?" Sherlock sneered a bit.
"I'm going nowhere. I'm staying here, trying to get a bit more work done." Suddenly he broke off, stopping and beaming at John. "You should stay, too! I think I've reached a point where you could be of use -"
"As kind as that offer is," John interrupted, a bit stung, "I can't. I'm going home."
"Well of course you were supposed to tell the school if you were staying," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "But I'm sure between the two of us we could -"
"No," John said loudly. "I can't stay. I am going home. It's Christmas."
Finally Sherlock seemed to hear him. "Yes," he said slowly, as though John was being incredibly dense. "But what has that to do with anything?"
John stopped dead in his tracks, and the Slytherin turned to face him. "It's Christmas," he repeated with false calm. "It's a time for family. It's a time to go home and exchange gifts and - and just spend time with my mother and my sister, who I haven't seen in months. It's a time to take a break from working and going to school, and why should I-"
"Oh please." Sherlock snorted, and instantly a wave of icy foreboding swept over John. "Family - so you've decided that going and sitting in a room where you don't feel quite at home with a woman who constantly shushes you because she is ashamed of you and a girl who pinches and teases and insults you is your idea of a good time? You won't have a good time because you have no friends there; you can't escape your house, and your mother is scared to let you out alone because she thinks you'll spill your secrets and the family will be in shame. And your sister will keep on pushing you, trying to get a rise, and your mother won't step in because somewhere, deep down inside, although she'd never admit it, she agrees with everything the girl is saying. All the insults, all the insinuations of -"
"Shut up." John spoke quietly, but his voice was so icy and dangerous that Sherlock trailed off instantly, frowning in confusion. John stood there for several moments, an infinity of possible retorts, insults, and accusations swirling around in his mind, but he couldn't choose just one. Finally, maintaining glaring eye contact with the taller boy, he shook his head very slowly and deliberately, and then turned his back and walked very quickly away.
"John?" Sherlock's voice almost sounded concerned, but John ignored it and marched straight back to his dormitory. He lay awake in bed for a long time that night, seething with anger - anger at Sherlock for saying all of those horrible things, and anger at himself. Because every one of the Slytherin's words had reverberated within him as - somehow - true.
John did go home for Christmas, and to his frustration and disappointment, it was much like Sherlock had predicted. Not even Christmas Day was fun, and soon after he started counting down the days before his return to Hogwarts. He spent a good deal of the holiday holed up in his bedroom, staring at the wall. He had also resolved to improve his marks in Potions, so whenever he got disgusted with himself for sitting around doing nothing, he would pull out his textbook and study. It was to his misfortune that his mother walked in on this one day.
"John?" She pushed his door open and poked her head inside. "What do you do in here all day?" She scanned the room and, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, stepped the rest of the way in. "What are you reading?" John had tried to shove the textbook under his bedspread but hadn't been quick enough. Now she peered over his shoulder, her mouth silently forming the unfamiliar words. Frowning, she reached down and flipped the book closed, jumping back as she saw the title. "Potionmaking! Really, John!"
It was John's breaking point; the last straw in a series of tsks and backhanded comments and general distrust and embarrassment. "I'm studying, Mum!" he yelled, jumping out of bed. "I'm doing schoolwork! You don't know I study Potions? Oh, right - you've never asked what I study at school! You have no idea! Well, what did you expect? It's magic! Magic! No matter how you try to ignore it!" Throughout his tirade she had backed towards the door, a look of fear plastered across her face. Behind her, Harry's eager face peered into the room - until the door swung shut, seemingly of its own volition.
"John!" John clenched his fist, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath to calm himself. He couldn't lose control.
"I'm sorry, Mum," he muttered, turning his back to her. She made a nervous noise behind him, pulling the door back open. Harry had vanished.
"Dear." Her voice was pleading but edged with steel. "Why don't you - you're on holiday, aren't you? Put the school things away. Read a - a normal book, would you, if you're going to read? Read - read the sports pages... like a normal boy."
Too much, too soon. John spun back around and groped under his pillow. His mother nearly bolted, looking terrified, but paused when he came up with a book. "Normal?" he roared, flinging the book at her. Her eyes widened, but she caught it with shaking hands. "The sports pages? Why should I care about Muggle sports? When did I ever like sports to begin with? Well, be glad, Mum, because I found one I do like! I've been reading up on it, too! Are you happy with that? Go on," he demanded, gesturing at the book in her hands. "Go on - what do you think of my favorite sport?"
Hands still trembling, she ran a finger over the title Quidditch Through the Ages. Then, slowly, she opened the book to where John had it marked. She gasped as several players in long, flowing robes zoomed through a photo inside, and she slammed the book shut, flinging it back at John. "Don't you do this!" She held up a single finger. "John Watson, don't you -"
"Don't what?" He flung his arms wide. "Don't remind you? Of the truth? Well, it's true, Mum! You've got a wizard in the family!" He opened the drawer of his nightstand next, and pulled out an envelope. "Here! Late Christmas present for you - it only just arrived; a friend had to send it to me. Go on - open it. I thought you might like it - something to remember me by while I'm at school." At the time he thought it up, it really had been a thoughtful present. Now it seemed spiteful, and that's certainly how his mother took it when she opened the envelope and pulled out the photograph.
For a moment, she just stared. In the picture, John beamed up at her, waving happily. "I was going to have it framed," John spat. His mother gripped the photo very tightly in both hands, and John waited to see whether she would rip it right in two. But then her grip loosened, and she turned to him, holding out the photo.
"Put this away," she ordered dangerously. "And take it back to school, and never bring it - or another - another photo or whatever this really is - into this house again." John stared at her as she turned to leave. Behind him, the curtains of his window started fluttering as a breeze built up inside the room.
"You're crazy." She turned back, mouth falling open. "I'm a wizard, Mum!" Tears of anger welled up in his eyes. "I'm a wizard - deal with it! I'm still your son! I'm not going away, am I? I just said - you have a wizard in the family!"
"I had a wizard in the family before!" she screamed. John had finally pushed her over the edge. "Where do you think this - this problem came from?" John stared at her blankly. "Do you think I was surprised when all this nonsense started? Not surprised! Just disappointed! I'd hoped - oh, I'd hoped so hard, prayed so hard - but it was for nothing, wasn't it! You're still - you've got it, anyway!"
John was frozen. He had unconsciously crumpled the photograph in his hand. "What are you..." Now it was his hands that were shaking.
"Five years we were married!" his mother shouted, furious tears pouring down her face as her hair was whipped around by the wind in the room. "Five years! Two babies, we had! And he tells me - he tells me he doesn't really work for the government! He's not really going to the office every day to file tax reports! He's doing magic! Because he's a bloody wizard! Well, what did he expect? Lying to me for years and years!"
"Are you saying -" John was stunned, his head spinning.
"Your bloody father!" she answered. "Yeah, John - your father was a wizard! Fat lot of good it did him, too! I told him get out, stay away, never contact me or the kids again." John gasped.
"You told me he ran out on us!" he exploded. "You said he -"
"What was I supposed to do? Tell you the truth? I hated him! I thought he'd gone mad, and then he - he proved it, showed me magic, and it terrified me! All I wanted to do was raise you two and pretend none of it existed! And we were doing fine, too, until you got that bloody letter, and there was nothing I could do to stop it! And I've tried to be civil - to, to go along with it, but it's all mad!"
John couldn't believe any of this. All he knew was a red-hot fury was rising inside him, and despite his closed window a gale-force stream of air was ripping through his bedroom. Once again he forced himself to take deep breaths until the air was still once again. His mother gasped through tears, leaning against the door. With clenched fists, he looked up at her. "Where is he?" he demanded, his words deliberate and cold. She flinched, and he repeated himself more loudly. "Where is he?"
"He's dead!" She pushed herself forward, grabbing John by his shirt. "Dead, not two years after I told him to leave and never look back! I got a letter - shouldn't even have opened it, should've known it was something from - from his world. He got blown up, John. Blown up by magic, doing his day-to-day work. Understand now why I don't want this - any of this?" John stared up at her, not even realizing he was crying. "It's dangerous!"
She dropped his shirt and turned away, crying in earnest now. "Mum -" John reached out, but she jerked away from him.
"Don't!" She caught his hand in a tight grasp and he gasped in pain. "It's dangerous for you, and don't think I don't know that! When were you going to tell me about your little accident? Oh, yes," she added nastily as John paled. "Even at your special school they still send letters home when a student is - is attacked. Except at normal schools students don't get blasted in the head and concuss themselves on a flight of stairs!" Still gripping John's hand, she reached out to brush his hair away and reveal the long, thin scar that ran along the side of his head. "I've been waiting all break for you to tell me, and you haven't." John didn't know what to say.
"I didn't want you to-"
"What, to worry?" She released his hand. "I worry every day, John, and I will for the rest of your life." Her voice dropped very low, and she leaned in close. "Don't go back, John."
"What?" He jerked away.
"Don't go back. Stay here - stay in London, with me and Harry. Forget about all this nonsense. Live with us, in the real world. You're a smart boy - you'll meet someone, settle down, live a nice life. A safe life." John shook his head. "Be reasonable," his mother pleaded.
"I'm going back to school," he said in disbelief. "This isn't something you can just stamp out, Mum. I'm not like you - I'm not going to live as a Muggle." She slapped him hard across the face, and he staggered backwards.
"Don't you care about me?" she demanded, raising her hand again. John clapped a hand to his cheek. "Don't you care what I want for you? You're my son!" She grabbed John by the upper arm and shook him. "Listen to what I'm saying!"
"No, you listen to me!" John shoved her hand away. He was furious again, his voice cold and unwavering. "I am going back to school next week. I. Am. A. Wizard." She raised a hand as though to slap him again, but she froze, shaking her head.
"You don't care," she spat bitterly. "Single mother, raised you by myself... See what thanks that gets me?" As John opened his mouth to shout a reply, his bedroom window exploded. His mother screamed, and John covered his head with his arms, gasping. Had he done that? His mother stared at him, terror in her eyes. "See? It's dangerous! All of it! You!"
He couldn't do it anymore. He fled out of his room, paused at the front door to grab his shoes and coat, and then tore out into the street.
He ran, not caring that tears still fell from his eyes, not caring that he must look mad tearing through the streets of London, not caring about where he was going. He finally stopped in front of a small coffee shop, and, shivering, stepped inside. He dug his wallet out of the pocket of his coat and ordered a hot drink. "You don't - you don't have a phone, do you?" The older woman behind the counter nodded to one hanging by the kitchen door. "Could I borrow it? " She nodded again and tossed him the cordless receiver. John took it and his mug to a back table.
After a moment he returned to the counter. "I don't suppose you have a phonebook handy?" he asked with an embarrassed sigh. The woman frowned and went into the back room.
"You lost, boy?" He shook his head. "You a runaway? I'm s'posed to call police on runaways."
"I'm not," he insisted. "I swear. I just need to try and reach - someone." For of course he had no idea who to call. He took the phonebook to his little table and flipped through it, looking for anyone who looked familiar. Molly was first to come to mind, but there were twenty listings with the surname Hooper. Perhaps Eddie? But he lived far away and wouldn't be in this book. Sherlock? John groaned but flipped a page back; there was not a single Holmes listed. John slammed the book shut and put his forehead on the table. Of course wizarding families didn't have phones. He was an idiot.
"Muggle-borns," he muttered to himself, thinking hard. "Who do I know who's Muggle-born?" He couldn't think of anyone for sure. He racked his brain for old friends, but he hadn't spoken to any of them since starting at Hogwarts. It was hopeless.
"John?" He started at the sound of his name, turning abruptly to see Professor Longbottom of all people standing next to his table. John hardly recognized him in Muggle attire, but he jumped up, wiping his hand across his face, suddenly aware that he must look a terrible mess.
"P-professor?" He gulped, heaving for breath. "I - I-"
"May I sit down, John?" With a nod, the boy retook his seat, and the professor joined him. They sat in silence, and the woman brought around a cup of coffee for Professor Longbottom.
"You done with those, then?" She pointed to the phone and book laying in front of John. At his nod, she gathered them up and took them with her.
"I - I forgot wizards don't have phones," John admitted with a quiet, wry chuckle. "I was trying to look them up in the book."
"An easy mistake to make," the professor said, peering at him with a concerned frown. "John, are you all right?" John shook his head.
"Why are you here?" he asked, then blushed. "I'm sorry - why are you here, sir?"
"The Ministry of Magic contacted Hogwarts earlier in the holidays, saying there was quite a concentration of magical activity around your home. Nothing serious," he assured John. "Just things that happen when a young witch or wizard loses control of their emotions. They used to take a sterner approach, but nowadays they let the school know that something's up and keep an eye on it. Then tonight, they sent us another message saying things were... well, escalating. Again, it's not wholly unusual, but since we knew you were alone - I mean, that you weren't around any other wizards - we thought it might be best for someone to check in." John nodded.
"I guess I've been... emotional. My mum..." he shook his head, choking a bit as he forced the tears to stay put inside his head. He cleared his throat. "My mum doesn't want me to go back to school. She doesn't want me learning magic at all, or even talking about it or, or anything. She wants me to pretend it doesn't exist. She hates me." His voice broke on the last sentence and he stopped talking, trying to cover it with a cough.
Professor Longbottom laid a hand on his arm. "Now, I'm sure that's not true," he said gently. John bit his lip.
He couldn't meet the professor's eyes. "Professor -"
"We are still on holiday, John," the man reminded him, taking a sip of his coffee. "And I was rather enjoying the break from being addressed as 'professor' constantly. So if you'd like you can call me Neville."
"Neville?" John glanced up at him with a small frown.
"I know. It's a horrible name. But it's the one I've got." He took another sip from his mug. "Now, as we were saying, I'm sure your mother doesn't hate you."
John sighed, staring into his coffee. "She - she told me... I always thought my father ran out on us." He glanced up, but the professor didn't react to his words. John spoke hesitantly, not a hundred percent sure why he was choosing to open up to his herbology professor like this. Maybe it was the coffeehouse, maybe he just needed to talk to an adult who understood about magic. Maybe knowing that the professor's first name was something as ridiculous as Neville made him seem more approachable. "He was a wizard." John choked up a little again. "He was a wizard, and when she found out she kicked him out. And now she expects me to - to pretend none of it exists. How can she expect that?" He was feeling more morose by the minute.
"My," said the professor after a moment. "That's some very heavy stuff, John." The boy nodded.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted. "I know I'm going back to school - I have to! Does that - does that make me an awful person, Professor?" His mother's anguished face swam before him.
"Neville. And not at all, John. But it doesn't make your mother a horrible person, either. Try to see it from her perspective - she was lied to as well, and she's probably scared."
"She is," John confirmed quietly. "But that doesn't mean I can just turn away from it all - I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if she told me I couldn't bring my textbooks back in the house. She hates it. All of it. She called me dangerous - no," he continued as the professor tried to interrupt. "She said that flat-out." He met Neville's eyes sadly.
"Would you let me talk to her?" John bit his lip.
"I doubt she'd want to see you," he admitted. Neville waited. "But... yes." He was ashamed of it, but he was scared to go home and face his mother. He stood with a sigh and led the way back home.