Thursday morning, two days before the first Hogsmeade visit, the Defense Against the Dark Arts class was the same as usual-with the students learning new morbid spells that John was positive Professor Nevamann should not be teaching them. But Sherlock went along with it, so John did as well. They obviously did not practice them on each other (at least not the particularly dangerous and painful ones), but they practiced wand technique and pronunciation.
John tended to avoid practicing them unless the Professor was nearby, but watched Sherlock instead, memorizing what each spell looked like (that was the only reason they were learning them after all, right?). The boy had expected his friend to be good at them, as he was good at any other spell they learned, but it still unnerved John how interested he seemed.
He practiced them almost religiously; John would catch him miming the wand movements under the table in the library while they were studying, and every now and then he thought he heard Sherlock whispering the incantations under his breath-in other classes. He was still as diligent as ever in other subjects, but it seemed Defense Against the Dark Arts, particularly the Dark Arts bit of it was seeping into every other aspect of Sherlock's day to day routine.
Vaguely, while watching the boy that day, John wondered if the Sorting Hat had considered putting Sherlock in Slytherin. Ravenclaw certainly fit him well, but it seemed as though he wouldn't be out of place in the other house either. His brother was there after all. But it was the house that he had come from, that dark power that threatened the entire wizarding world, and John refused to allow himself to think that Sherlock was anything like He Who Must Not Be Named or his followers. Sherlock might be cocky, and maybe a bit too interested in certain things at times, but he wasn't evil.
John shook his head, banishing these thoughts, and glanced at the clock-they only had a couple minutes left of class, and then it was off to double Potions. He shoved his wand into the pocket of his robes, and slung his bag over his shoulder while Sherlock finished up.
The two boys were on their way out the door with the rest of the class when Nevamann stopped them. "Sherlock, a word, please?"
John couldn't help but feel a bit relieved. Perhaps Nevamann had seen what John had as well, and wanted to talk to Sherlock about it. Although he didn't agree with the Professor on a number of things, and wasn't particularly fond of him, he trusted him to sort out anything that was amiss.
"Want me to wait up?"
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it, I won't be long."
"See you in Potions."
"See you."
Sherlock was a bit apprehensive as to what it was Nevamann wanted-the incident with Collins had been ages ago, and he had already served that detention.
"What is it, Professor? I don't have long-I'll be late to Potions."
"Not to worry, I just want a quick word," he began softly. "I couldn't help but notice your….interest in our recent material."
"I like to think I'm always interested in what we're learning, sir."
"Well yes, yes, of course. It's just that this tends to be very, er, touchy subject matter and most students, such as your friend Mr. Watson, are largely uncomfortable learning it."
Sherlock noticed that Nevamann was eyeing him strangely. "I just think it's important to know," he said, a bit defensively. "Surely that's why you're teaching us?" He couldn't help but have a slightly accusing tone of voice.
"Of course, of course. Well, keep up the hard work then, Mr. Holmes. It's never a bad thing to be interested in something….off you go, then."
Shooting the Professor another strange look, Sherlock headed off to the dungeons, already a full four minutes behind schedule.
"Now, now, Sherlock, this isn't like you!" exclaimed Slughorn, giving the boy a stern look as he hurried into the classroom.
"Sorry Professor, I was having a word with Professor Nevamann." Sherlock dropped his bag onto the floor beside John's, and noticed with a twinge of annoyance that Sarah had taken a seat at their table, and was setting up her cauldron.
"I'll have to have a word with him about that! We can't have you being late to Potions, although I'm sure he'd like to hog you as much as possible!" Slughorn chuckled, and began circling the room, while informing the class the potions they would be brewing today (a mild love potion and its antidote), and what pages they could find them on.
"What did Nevamann want?" John asked casually, while the three of them flipped open their potions books.
"Later," said Sherlock, aware of Sarah's questioning gaze.
"Oh. Okay."
Sherlock couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at how well Sarah seemed to be brewing her love potion-she was following the directions religiously, and it was almost as good as Sherlock's. John, however, seemed so distracted by the fact that he was brewing a love potion right across from Sarah that he was performing even more dismally than usual. A number of times, Sherlock had to reach over and stop him from adding too much of a certain ingredient, or from adding the wrong one all together. By the end of the double period, he had rolled his eyes countless times-especially after noticing Sarah wasn't quite as interested in the antidote as she was the potion.
In the great hall that evening, everyone was surprised to see that the tables were not yet decorated with lavish foods and beverages, as per usual. The plates and glasses were set, but there was no food in sight.
Once the majority of the school had gathered, Dumbledore stood up and coughed ever so slightly-but the effect was instantaneous. Every student fell quite, and not a soul was even thinking about whispering. Everyone, however, was curious as to what he had to say. He never made speeches, save at the beginning and end of each term.
"As everyone is aware," he began in his booming voice, "these are exceedingly dangerous times that we are living in."
The people around John and Sherlock all raised their eyebrows. With a dark wizard running rampart, possibly the most dangerous since Grindelwald, that much was obvious.
"It is therefore more important than ever, that we feel a sense of unity not only amongst ourselves, here at Hogwarts, but also in the wizarding community in general. Therefore, we will soon be participating in an event that will involve other wizarding schools as well."
At this, a good deal of excited chattering erupted in the hall, which was quickly quelled as Dumbledore opened his mouth to continue speaking.
"However, that is all the Ministry will allow me to reveal as of yet. Normally, an event such at this would be announced, in full detail, at the end of the year. But, due to a number of complicated, boring, political reasons, we are still working out some of the finer details. When the rest is worked out, however, I will be pleased to inform you of everything you wish to know. Now, I think I've deprived you of a feast for far too long. Chop chop!"
At a clap of the Headmaster's hands, the plates were immediately laden with food, which looked even more elaborate and delectable than usual-Sherlock, however, was far too preoccupied to even consider eating.
John turned to look at him. "What d'ya reckon?"
"About what?" Sherlock asked, breaking free of his trance.
"About what Dumbledore just said!" The boy looked incredulous. "Weren't you listening?"
"Of course I was," he responded dismissively. "It's obvious, don't you think?"
"Um, not really? Care to enlighten me?"
Sherlock leaned closer to John, and whispered, "The Triwizard Tournament."
John's incredulity seemed to double. "Don't be ridiculous. They haven't had that in ages!"
"So they're trying again; unity and all that-you heard him. What else could it be?"
John didn't have a good answer. "I don't know. I suppose we'll have to wait and see. By the way, I was wondering if you wanted to help me with some spells this evening."
"I thought you didn't approve of what we've been learning."
John wrinkled his nose. "I don't. Not those spells. Some other ones we learned earlier in the year. Like stunning, and the Shield Charm."
The other boy snorted. "You did both of those just fine in the duel."
"That was ages ago, and I'm out of practice. And…"
"And what?"
"Well, there have been more and more attacks lately. And since we're not learning proper defense from Nevamann, I'd like to learn it from someone-who better than you?"
Sherlock sighed, and ran a hand through his messy curls. "And here I was thinking I'd finish my book tonight."
"What in the name of Merlin's beard are we doing here?" The two boys were standing in the middle of the seventh floor corridor, facing a blank wall.
"Have you ever heard of the room of requirement?" Sherlock asked quietly, as though he were talking about something extremely secret.
"No."
"It's a legend about the school-a secret room, that appears when someone is in dire need of something. Like if you're trying to hide from bullies, for example. There are, of course, rules as to get into it-you need to think about what you need clearly in your head, and walk past the door three times. As you can imagine, it's nearly impossible to find. I read about it in my first year and happened across it in my second."
A thought struck John like a slap to the face. "Um…when you found it…were you trying to hide from bullies?"
Sherlock seemed not to hear him-he was pacing in front of the wall, eyes squeezed shut, as though he was concentrating with all his might.
As Sherlock had said, after he walked past it for the third time, a large wooden door materialized in the previously blank wall.
"Blimey!" exclaimed John, shocked despite the fact that he knew what would happen.
Sherlock ignored him and shoved open the door; John quickly sucked in a breath of air to stop himself from swearing in shock and appreciation. They were in a very open, very large and dimly lit room, with a high ceiling. There were stacks of books along the walls, and decent-sized window that John couldn't remember ever seeing from the grounds. The floor was matted as if it was meant for people to fall on it, and there were all sorts of dark detectors along the walls and shelves-Sherlock listed them off to him: foeglasses, sneakoscopes, and a variety of other brass instruments that spun and emitted loud noises sporadically, whose names John could not remember.
"This is bloody brilliant."
"Yes, well, it's not here for us to admire. Let's get to work, shall we?"
They practiced everything-from stunning to simple charms, to defensive spells, offensive spells, and everything in between. They targeted cushions, mannequins, and, when it was safe, even each other. John practically mastered stunning and shield charms, and wasn't too shabby at the other things either. Sherlock himself managed to get in a decent amount of practiced, and decided that it had been well worth not finishing his book.
John was immensely enjoying himself too-he was ready to keep going long after Sherlock was ready to sleep for days on end. "Do you think you could teach me how to cast a Patronus?" he asked the other boy excitedly.
"A Patronus?"
"Yeah! I mean, wouldn't that be useful with the dementor attacks that have been in the Prophet lately?"
"Of course. But it's getting a bit late, don't you think? What time is it anyways?"
John looked down at his wristwatch. It was all stars instead of hands, and countless numerals he couldn't read. "I don't know, do you know how to read these things?"
Sherlock scowled. "Why do you wear a watch if you don't even know how to read it?"
"It was a gift."
"Well, obviously." He glanced at the boy's watch, seeming to comprehend it perfectly. "It's half past one."
"Half past one?! Blimey. We'd better get going."
"'Get going?'" the dark-haired boy echoed in disbelief. "You really think we'll make it back to our common rooms without getting caught?"
"So what do you want us to do? Stay the night?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Why not? I've done it before, it's perfectly comfortable."
"All of my homework is in my bag, up in the dormitories."
"Well it was pretty stupid of you to leave your bag there. And why didn't you finish your homework before dinner if you intended to practice?"
"First off I wasn't sure you'd agree. Second off, I didn't realize it would take us until half past one."
"Even if you made it back without being caught, at this time would you really stay up to finish your homework?"
John sighed, giving in. "Not likely."
"That's what I thought."
"Where are we supposed to get blankets and pillows? I can't sleep without at least two pillows under my head."
"Over here," Sherlock directed, suppressing the strong urge to roll his eyes. He reached behind a door that John was pretty sure hadn't been there previously, and tugged out piles of large, fluffy blankets and some of the biggest pillows John had ever seen.
"That's bloody convenient."
"It's called "the room of requirement" for a reason, you know."
Sherlock made his way over to the far wall, and curled up under a large pile of blankets below the window. As John treaded over to join him, dragging a blanket and some pillows in his wake, he noticed with surprise that it was beginning to snow-or maybe it had been snowing for ages now.
"Sherlock, look," he whispered, suddenly conscious of how quiet it was.
"What?" he muttered. Only his tousled hair was visible from underneath his almost literal tent of sheets and comforters.
"Just look."
Annoyed, the boy sat up, and to John's surprise, his eyes widened. He had expected a snark comment along the lines of "it's just snow-that's what happens when it rains in cold temperatures", but the boy seemed just as fascinated as John himself.
It doesn't seem like an ordinary snow, John thought to himself as he sat down beside Sherlock and wrapped himself in his own covers. And that was true enough. Against the pitch black of the sky, the flakes seemed to almost glow, as if stars were raining down from the heavens.
John lost count of how long they watched the snow fall. At one point, they both ended up on their backs, still gazing out of the window. Their shoulders would occasionally brush, and John was acutely aware of every hair on his arm standing up at the sensation-even though there were two layers of cloth between them, at least.
At one point, John shifted his gaze to Sherlock's eyes. They were far more than just a blue-grey. Every once in a while, he caught a glimpse of green, a flicker of gold, and even some flashes of purple here and there. They were like moonlight dancing across the surface of a lake. John's last thought before falling asleep was, it's like he has stars in his eyes.