HI ALL, REAL SORRY AGAIN, ALTHOUGH I SHOULD JUST STOP APOLOGISING AND PUT A COLLECTIVE APOLOGY ON ALL MY FICS.
Okay, so the reason this got delayed is that since it took me a year to update the last chapter, I'd lost a lot of my enchantment for this fic - so I decided to write two chapters before publishing. AND YES, this is now going to be a five chapter fic! Let's hope it sticks to five chapters.
AND HELLS YEAH, I WROTE THE NEXT CHAPTER AS WELL. IT'S GONNA BE UPDATED BY NEXT WEEK.
Creates a protective shield over the intended target.
The New Year vanished within minutes, while Molly watched the clock in her office. She cared little for celebration, and she preferred the quiet of the office over the staff party. In particular, it seemed that half the staff was on holiday. She didn't care to spend any time with Anderson, and even lesser with Professor Trelawney. She didn't want predictions of death. In contrast to Trelawney, she had visited Hagrid during the evening. At the moment, she was rather comfortable in her office.
Molly hadn't begun working at Hogwarts a long time back. She'd joined only three years back.
Professor Longbottom – pioneer of the field, with some of most amazing work on evolution within magical plants, and a bit of a hero for Molly – had left to teach at the university level. Molly had joined because Mary – the Charms teacher was an old friend of hers from University, and Meena – the potions professor and her childhood friend – had promised her that school level teaching wasn't as bad as it sounded.
Molly had been a professor at the university level for a while. It had let her write all those papers, particularly since the morgue did not have half the resources the university did.
It was not that the morgue itself had poor resources, it just seemed that Wizardry had not evolved their understanding of crime with the way the world worked. With their increasingly enmeshed worlds, crimes became more sophisticated – hardly ever was an avada kedavra used anymore. Even Draco, while he was the only Healer who worked with Sherlock – and was frequently found in the morgue, was not technically assigned to the morgue.
The clock was stuck at ten minutes past twelve.
She wished at times, that she was alone even while she was by herself. She didn't know why this sense of exhaustion would overcome her at times, but it seemed to – at the most inopportune moments.
Sherlock had been around more frequently, especially since John was gone. Molly missed Mary and Meena. She even missed Irene.
She found it hard to be around Sherlock at the moment – he had no concept of personal space, or of her feelings. Her heart felt raw.
At times, in moments like this – tears tended to leak from her eyes. She wasn't a terrible crier, but she did it regularly. New Year and Christmas was hard that way – she missed people, she missed some of her home, she even missed Ireland. She missed some of herself.
The clock struck twelve.
"Happy new year, Molly," she said to herself.
January wrapped itself in snow, over and over again. A bright, impossible whiteness gathered over everything that January was.
Molly spent time in the snow, as the children started to return from their homes – bags stacked with sweets and chocolates from Christmas. Endless sandwiches of turkey stuffing, and god alone knows what else. Molly's eyes raked the skies as the carriages crossed the lakes. She loved the way thestrals looked by the moonlight – their skeletal frames, slightly terrifying.
Right now, in the bright sunlight, the thestrals must be terrifying to anyone watching. Almost monstrous – yet Molly would still say, they were beautiful.
"Miss Hooper?" came a questioning voice.
Molly turned from the lake. Her knees were gathered close to her, her shoes slightly buried in the snow. "Hello," she said to the Divination professor, Firenze.
"I often find you here," he said quietly. He made no move to sit next to her, and Molly didn't bother asking.
"I hope I don't disturb you," she said apologetically.
"You don't," said Firenze evenly. "I only interrupted to ask you if you were planning a trip to the forest in the future."
Molly smiled, but made no move to joke about being able to see the future. Not only was Firenze terribly literal, he would immediately be able to show her where her position was in the universe since her little decisions made no change to the stars. "Perhaps, towards the end of January," she said.
"Very well. I shall let the remaining centaurs know," he said.
"Thank you," said Molly. "I hope your interdisciplinary paper is going well."
"Divination, should, ideally work with all the different practices of magic," said the centaur. "It is not hard to work with the Astronomy Professor, however, it could be done with Charms, or Transfiguration."
Molly snorted. "I bet Professor Holmes would love that."
Firenze gave her a wry smile. "Most of the subjects find it hard to accommodate me, or my language. It is hard to teach, when your words are transgressors."
Molly looked away. "Meena says the same."
"Human relations are none of my concern," said Firenze quietly. "That being said, I would agree with most of what Professor Prakash says. I should be off, Molly Hooper. Good afternoon to you."
Molly nodded. "Bye."
"Please submit all your abstracts today itself!" Molly called over the hubbub of the class. The students slowly buzzed the conversation until it faded completely. "Professor Holmes and I will be – well, we will be editing them and reworking them by next week, after which, you can - um – rewrite your abstracts and begin with your studies – erm – depending – depending on how much we think your proposal would be possible. Any questions?"
At once, two hands went up.
"Yes, Mr. Potter?" asked Molly.
"When do we have to finish our papers?"
"Ideally, by February have a first draft," said Molly. "Miss Webber?"
"Ma'am, would it be okay if I started working immediately? Only my experiment requires time…"
"Yes, I will write you a pass for the Greenhouses, you may come here whenever you need – provided you log in," Molly said. "Now, can we begin with today's lesson?"
Holmes entered the greenhouse once she was done. "Good lord, do we have to check the abstracts this weekend?" he asked.
"Sherlock," Molly said crossly.
Holmes didn't look at her directly. "Hooper, I'm joining you when you go to the Forbidden Forest."
Molly didn't even look up from her paper, as she stacked the abstracts neatly. "Why am I not surprised that you know?" she asked.
"I have an interest in some of the flora and fauna," he said.
"And I have an agreement with the centaurs," said Molly. "You do not."
"Irrelevant. I shall be able to enter, I have a relationship with Bane."
"Bane hates people like you," said Molly, shocked.
"I am aware. Which makes it obvious that he is me," said Holmes, with his trademark smirk. "Do not worry about permissions and the centaurs. When were you planning to go?"
"Next to next weekend, morning."
Sherlock looked rather irritatingly smug at having had his way. "Excellent."
"Molly," greeted Draco, without looking up from his paperwork. "If you're here for those samples, they're lying on table two."
"Oh – thanks," said Molly, breathlessly. She took off her scarf, draping it across a chair. "I'm sorry we ruined your New Year. Or the twenty ninth of December, rather."
"Its fine, Hooper," said Malfoy.
"But – um – I also have something to ask you," Molly said sheepishly. "That thing you said about Sherlock –"
"Oh, heaven help me," muttered Draco.
"No – I don't – we're not going to sit and gossip, as if we're fourth years by the lake."
"Are you sure? You sound terribly like Tracey Davis at the moment."
"Oh come on, Draco."
"Hooper, what do you want me to say?" sighed Draco.
"You're the only person I can talk to, okay?" said Molly. She felt rather vulnerable at the moment – particularly since her confidant was fucking Draco Malfoy. "I – I don't know what to make of – everything. I hate my crush on him, particularly when he doesn't give me the time of the day."
"Tragic," deadpanned Draco.
"Listen – just – explain why you think – the thing – you said, about Sherlock."
"Molly," said Draco slowly. "You don't have some inferiority complex, do you?"
"No – I mean – I'm awkward, but I'm fine," said Molly. "No complexes of any sort. I just – find it hard to wrap my head around. He's never given any indication – he once called me John during our class sessions, which was embarrassing. He finds me only for science experiments, or when John is missing -"
"What did I do in my life to deserve this conversation?" Draco said, his eyes raised upward. He paused. "Maybe this is a male thing," he added, in a slightly conciliatory tone.
"What?"
"I always assumed women were more intuitive about this – cry sexism all you want, Hooper, I grew up in an extremely conservative family – but it might be that Holmes' signals are something men notice."
"Is it?" asked Molly, interestedly.
"Then again, it's hard to ignore him staring at you for five minutes while you perform spells on skin samples," said Draco coldly.
Molly went pink. "No, he was staring at the spells I was doing."
"Don't be deliberately thick," said Draco, returning to his paperwork.
Molly tapped her fingers nervously on table two.
"Molly," said Draco warningly.
"Sorry," she murmured.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Do you always get this anxious when you're confronted with possible romantic happiness?"
"I'm sorry," she nearly wailed. "Sherlock makes me nervous, and then when I'm nervous, I start overthinking – when I overthink, I can't breathe – and then I start seeing spots, like I'm doing now -"
"Merlin's beard," swore Draco, getting up and striding towards her. He made her sit down on one of the stools as Molly began to breathe evenly. "And I thought Weasley had it bad in sixth year."
"What?" asked Molly, confused and still breathing heavily, "Wasn't he dating Brown in his sixth year? I was in seventh year, I remember."
"Yes. I'm surprised you remember that," said Draco. He left her at the stool, ignored his paperwork and headed to table one. "But you'd have to be an idiot to not notice Granger pining in the corner, and then Weasley is unusually muttonheaded for someone married to Granger."
"Oh God – we are in fourth year, aren't we? Gossiping about the people we know –"
Draco didn't say anything, but he looked rather caught off-guard. He picked up fresh flobberworms – she assumed for the small potion bubbling in the corner.
"Look, Hooper, I patently don't care about this situation. That's perhaps why you should trust my judgment more."
Which was a rather valid argument, so Molly couldn't counter it too much. "It's just –" Molly struggled. "He called me John once - he doesn't seem to pay attention to me, not even a little – and I have never seen him care two whits about whether or not I am around him. Besides which – he doesn't seem to like romance very much."
"Aren't you friends?" asked Draco, carefully chopping up some of his flobberworm.
"I – I mean, I suppose. I don't – he's too confusing."
"I'm sure," said Draco, throwing the flobberworm pieces into his potion.
"And now we have to go to the Forbidden Forest together," groaned Molly. "How am I supposed to take it? Why did he have to want to go with me?"
Draco looked up. "You'll be spending time with him, alone, for a while – and he was the one who suggested it?"
Molly nodded, preoccupied.
"Yeah, I don't see why anyone thinks there might be something going on," said Draco sarcastically. Theflobberworm bubbled in the potion with finality.
The fire burned in Holmes' office. It was rather an eccentric one, Molly felt – but it rather fit him. He had a tiny lab in the corner, where she was very certain that a small Hinkypunk was stored against his will. There was a yellow coloured smiley painted on one of the walls, and Molly was extremely unsure of why. The foeglass was intimidating, but she ignored it.
"God knows what Davies is working on," said Holmes.
"He seems to be a bit lost," Molly said.
"Don't be needlessly kind."
Molly glared at him.
"Oh – I'm done with Weasley," she said, putting the paper on Sherlock's pile.
"Which one?" asked Holmes sarcastically.
"Hilarious, Holmes," said Molly. "Just go through it. I think some points haven't been explained – but overall, a decent abstract for a sixth year."
"'The Properties of Moonflower in a Transformative Capacity.' Goodness, Potter is being ambitious."
"It's not bad, however. And the designed experiment is fairly sophisticated," said Molly.
"You find all their efforts sophisticated," snorted Holmes. "He must have worked hard for you," he added quietly.
"Yeah, sure," said Molly derisively.
"Potter hardly ever puts in effort for me, so the logical deduction –"
"Is that he has started caring about Herbology and Transfiguration."
"Fool yourself a while longer, Hooper."
The forest loomed overhead. A couple of crows cawed overhead. Molly looked up, an involuntary shudder running down her back. The snow on the ground seemed to have no intention of melting – and she was unsure if it ever was planning to. The trees fluttered gently, the periodic gust of small wind freezing the tips of the branches – if they weren't already half dead.
She heard the crunch of snow – as someone stepped on it, purposefully.
"Morning," said Holmes.
"Hi," she said. "If you're expecting to find something particularly exciting –"
Holmes snorted. "Hardly."
"Good. Now be quiet – I don't want to run out of luck with the centaurs."
Molly glanced upwards as she walked. Her eyes turned up almost constantly when she was in Hogwarts – she could never look away from the wind. When the tops of trees rustled Molly was filled with an overwhelming longing, one that she could neither quantify nor satisfy.
"What are we looking for?"
"Moonflowers," Molly said, stepping over a log. "Bowtruckle. Wand wood. You?"
"Something not boring," said Holmes. "Anything would do."
"Academic block?" asked Molly sympathetically.
"In a way," said Holmes. "Case block."
"Oh," said Molly. "I play the piano to help," she added.
"I tried that," said Holmes, sounding genuinely frustrated.
"You play?" asked Molly.
"Violin," he said succinctly.
She glanced upwards again.
"Why do you keep doing that?" he asked.
"What?" asked Molly, confused.
"You look upwards, smile, walk further, fiddle with your hair, and then look upward again."
Molly fingered her hair. "Um. Well. I like the sky. I like it best when trees frame it."
Sherlock didn't say anything. He probably found her a touch sentimental. "I know it's silly," she added. "But trees always sound so much like the ocean when the wind's around."
He didn't say anything still. Molly turned away quietly.
The morning went by in slips; the leaves of the trees murmured as it went by, speaking seconds into the wind. Molly and Sherlock found some of what they were looking for, a lot of what they were not, and Sherlock seemed thrilled at the possibilities a thestral carcass offered. Molly told him to hurry up in his collection of eye-liquid, because much as Sherlock would like to harvest all the goddamn organs, Hagrid was probably preparing a funeral with a daisy filled flower arrangement as they spoke.
Sherlock snorted when she said that, and continued to attack the corpse for whatever he could find.
"I didn't know you could see them," he added.
"I didn't know you could either," Molly said. "It's a bit limiting for sciencing, creatures some people can't see. Not to mention only be seen by death itself."
Either she was imagining it, or Sherlock was smiling a little. "I don't think 'sciencing' is a word," he said.
She blushed. "Who was it?" she said, after a beat.
Sherlock got up from the carcass finally, putting his samples in a jar. "One of my friends. Victor Trevor."
"I remember Trevor," said Molly. "He offered me firewhisky at a party, and pretended to be upset when I took some. I think he liked corrupting me."
Sherlock nodded imperceptibly. "And you?"
Molly rocked on her heels. "My Dad," she said finally. She looked upwards to the sky. "We should start leaving. It's going to be dark soon, and the centaurs will not protect us."
Sherlock got up, stowing away his wand and his jars of samples into his robes.
Molly focused now on her boots as they stepped over the foliage and dead leaves of the forest. "Forbidden forest," she said allowed. "Grim name."
"I think they named it in the sixteenth century like that, because they were idiots," said Sherlock. "And King James had just issued a proclamation against witches."
"You sound like you were best friends," Molly said.
"What? That would be impossible – oh, you're teasing."
Molly grinned. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you and King James would braid each other's hair."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. The crunch of Molly's boot corresponded with a Sherlock who had stiffened suddenly, and without warning, gripped her wrist.
"What?" she asked nervously.
"I can hear something."
"I hope it's not the beating of your heart," said Molly. "Or the thestrals, because then I would be terrified. Anything, for that matter –"
"Quiet, Molly."
She was rambling. Nervously. Stressfully. Anxiously.
Sherlock immediately dragged her behind him – which Molly resented, but not too much. His wand arm extended neatly, his stance perfect and unbreakable. Molly whipped out her own wand and looked behind them.
She heard the whistle of the wind. The trees whispered again, and Molly felt distinctly as if they were watching her. Discussing her.
Gentle, dull thuds against the Forest floor – almost invisible were directly behind her.
She immediately spun around, facing the same spot as Sherlock. From the forest trees, with a deliberateness that annoyed Molly, emerged Firenze.
"Oh, thank God," she said quietly. She lowered her wand almost immediately.
Sherlock, on the other hand, continued to eye him suspiciously.
"Let it go, Holmes," said Firenze quietly. "I mean you no harm, and the first thing I told Miss Hooper when she arrived was that she had already had a significant impact on the future for one so otherwise inconsequential."
Sherlock lowered his wand carefully. "Habits from the war," he said by way of explanation.
"I guessed as much," muttered Molly.
"Hooper?" said Firenze. "You should head back. The herd is meeting soon, and I have to attend it."
"Right. We were on our way," said Molly, stowing away her wand.
They heard Firenze's footsteps disappearing into the background slowly.
Molly didn't say anything, she was looking at her boots again. Her eyes flew upward, as they had a tendency to without warning.
She stumbled a little, and almost automatically, Sherlock's hand extended to grab her.
Her fingers gripped his palm, her head still downward – and a little, little bit breathlessly, she lifted herself off. They were a little close for comfort then, with his chest barely a few inches away, his eyes impossibly close and far at the same time. He smelled – he smelled of something cool, a little minty, perhaps. With lemons. He was looking at her with the untouchable impassivity that almost made her scared, and if it was any other man, she would have said that they might have kissed.
"Um – thank you," she murmured, to break the silence.
The walk to the Castle just seemed ridiculously far then.
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