Sorry it's been so long! I completely lost inspiration for months! But it has returned slightly, so I shall post the next chapter. It's longer than some of the others, so I hope you like it. I don't own Sherlock, Harry Potter, or any of these characters, except for Amelia Rose, and some later plot things.

John sighed as he walked back to the library alone, his footsteps and cane echoing in the empty hall. Sherlock Holmes... Because I absolutely needed to be left alone in the second floor girls' bathroom. Couldn't he wait? He stayed behind for me back at the library, but couldn't wait for me to leave the girls' room... Wow that sounds wrong coming from a guy.

He was so distracted by his thoughts, that he didn't notice the face in the torch as he passed. He thought is was odd that he heard his name being called as he turned a corner, but thought his mind was playing tricks on him, or maybe it was a ghost trying to mess with him, either way, he ignored it. The third time he heard the voice though, he stopped and listened.

"Hello?" John asked, feeling suspicious and stupid.

"Look to the third torch to your right," a male voice instructed. John did so impatiently, and suddenly it flared up and burnt out.

"Not to your left," the man continued, and looking looking to his left, John saw another torch flare up and died.

"And lastly, to your rear," the mysterious man finished. John turned around and all of the torches behind him blew out.

"You see what I can do, and I suggest you follow my assistant," was the last thing the man said before the rest of the torches within ten feet of John died as well.

A beautiful woman, who seemed to be barely old enough to be out of Hogwarts, came walking down the hall, writing on a scroll. She stopped when she came to John, and looked up at him from her writing.

"Come on," she said before departing again, and going back to her scroll. John followed close behind, not wanting to get in a difficult situation with the mystery man. Soon he found himself in a part of Hogwarts he didn't know, which was difficult to do since it was his fifth year there.

"... I'm John. John Watson," John said, trying to strike conversation with the beautiful young woman.

"... 'kay..." she replied.

"... Would you happen to have a name?" he asked.

"... Umm... Anthea..."

"Is that your real name?"

Her only response was to give him a look that said, 'What do you think?' After that they walked in silence, 'Anthea' continuing to write on her scroll, and John glancing at her. Eventually the two came to a stop outside a long deserted classroom. 'Anthea' nodded towards the door, gesturing that he should go in alone.

In the empty room, there was a man dressed in expensive robes. He looked to be about twenty five, with thin brown hair on his round, hat-less head. He was slightly chubby, but his height and aura made him untouchable, unshakable, unforgettable. In one word, the man was ice.

"Do you intend to continue your interactions with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, skipping formalities.

"I might be wrong, but I don't think that's any of your business," John replied sternly.

"That depends," the ice man answered.

"Who are you?" John asked.

"Some one who is concerned with Sherlock's well being,"

"What kind of person is concerned with Sherlock's well being?"

"The closest thing he has to a friend,"

"And what's that?"

"An enemy. In fact, he would most likely call me his archenemy. He has always had the flare for dramatics,"

"Yes, because you are above that," the student said sarcastically.

"You have yet to answer my question, Mr. Watson," the man sighed.

"I don't see why I should," John said defiantly.

"Interesting... let me see your hand," the adult ordered, reaching for John's left hand.

"Don't-" John warned, pulling his hand away from the man. He knew it must be shaking, like it always was, and he didn't want to show that weakness to a man he didn't know.

"Ah. Fire your doctor. She's got it all wrong. You're not plagued by the war. You miss it. And you'll get it. Walking with Sherlock Holmes is seeing the battle ground. If you plan on continuing your relationship with Sherlock, I can make it worth your time to... keep me up to date,"

"You want me to spy on him for you?"

"I like to know what he's up to,"

"I am not going to spy on him for you!" John cried.

"My, you are extremely loyal, extremely quickly,"

"I'm not that loyal, I just will not tell you, or anyone else, what a fourteen year old boy is doing!" John shouted.

"Pity. We could have worked something out," the man stated.

"Are we done here?" John asked impatiently.

"Are we?" the ice-cold man replied. John huffed and walked out of the class room.

"Where are we?" John asked 'Anthea'.

"Where are you heading?" she replied.

"The library," John replied, "but first I want to get something from my trunk."

"Follow me," she agreed, writing on her scroll.

"Hey, would you mind not telling your boss about where I'm going?" Anthea gave him a look that told him that she already wrote it down. After that they walked in silence.

"John, hand me my wand," Sherlock, who had placed a few chairs in a row and was laying on them, said.

"It's right beside you," John cried, finding it on a desk next to Sherlock.

"It was too far away, and Mrs. Hudson didn't hear me,"

John sighed, "I met one of your friends just now. Or enemies. He said you call him your 'archenemy'." He looked around the corner of the isle to see if the man had anyone spying on them.

"Oh," he taller but younger boy replied, "which one?"

"People don't have enemies, Sherlock!" John cried.

"Then what do they have?"

"Friends! People they hang out with!"

"Hm... Dull. See that piece of paper over there? Write down exactly as I say,"

"... Alright..." John said cautiously, and complied.

"Write: Rooty can't remember what happened last night. Rooty got someone to write this for her. Please write back," Sherlock ordered. John did as Sherlock stated. "Good. Now fold it into a paper air plane and let it go." John did as he was instructed. "That was enchanted to return to the person who originally enchanted it, meaning the elf, or in this case, the last person to see her alive."

"You made me write a letter to a murderer?!"

"Yes. My handwriting might have been recognized. You're dull enough that they wouldn't know yours. Now all we have to do it wait for the killer's reply,"

Sorry again that this took so long to put on! I've been really, really sick. Please review! Reviewers get a reply from Sherlock, John, Mycroft, or Anthea!