HELLO LAST CHAPTER HERE.
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Mimblewimble
A curse which prevents certain information from being revealed by the individual upon whom the spell is placed.
Left.
Why did her fingers feel so odd? She felt like peeling off all the hangnails.
Right.
And her face felt odd as well. She rubbed her hands over her nose, wondering if the feeling would leave.
Left.
She wondered if her legs had always felt such a lot like jelly.
Right.
"Could you stop pacing?" asked Malfoy, his pen tracing some paperwork.
"Sorry," said Molly perfunctorily.
"You aren't even remotely sorry, Hooper," said Malfoy rudely.
"You're right, I'm not," said Molly.
"Are you going to tell me what happened?" asked Draco sourly. "All you said in your floo call was a very squeaky 'boy trouble!' and disappeared."
Molly continued pacing.
"What did he do now? Did he flirt with you? Heaven forbid, did he compliment you?" asked Malfoy, continuing his paperwork.
Molly's face was hardly red anymore, it was purple. She seemed to be having trouble breathing. She coughed as she ate the rest of the biscuit, and she looked at Draco imploringly. "He kissed me."
Malfoy was looking at her scrutinisingly again.
"You are worse than Weasley," he said.
"You take that back!" Molly hissed.
"I will not," said Malfoy. "At least Weasley knew what to do when Granger kissed him."
"Why, what did Weasley do?" asked Molly hurriedly.
"Really, Molly?" asked Malfoy. "You want to take romantic advice from the life of Ronald Weasley."
Molly made an unintelligible sound that was rather like, "Uh-huh."
"This is ridiculous," sighed Malfoy. Molly sat down on one of the stools, pressed her head down on the table and groaned.
The door of the lab opened in that minute, and Astoria walked in, looking beautiful in her professional robes. "Oh, hello," she said, surprised to see Molly.
"Mmmmmmmmpff," said Molly.
"Everything alright?" asked Astoria, putting her bag down.
"She's upset because Sherlock Holmes kissed her," said Draco boredly.
Molly made a strangled sound from where she was sitting.
"Isn't that a good thing?" asked Astoria.
"Does it look like a good thing?" asked Draco with another sigh.
By the time she had returned to Hogwarts, she was pacing for wholly different reasons. Molly had to screw up a lot of courage to speak to Sherlock, and a large part of her mind was completely frayed.
She looked around her assigned room – carefully hidden away from the study, and overlooking the greenhouses.
She felt, for the hundredth time, like she was in fourth year again.
The door of her study was closed shut, but she contemplated the woodwork. She was attempting to think of whether or not she should go to meet Sherlock.
That was when the door knocked. Ostensibly, there was someone behind the door to do the knocking, but Molly was certain that the door had felt her thinking and had become sentient – as Hogwarts tended to do.
"Hooper?" came Sherlock's crisp voice from behind.
OhnoOhnoOhnoOhno
"I – uh – I –" she looked around desperately. "I'm not here!" she squeaked.
Holmes opened the door. "Yes. You're not here," he said dryly.
Molly tried to lean on her desk – and looked up at him. "Hi," she said. Her hand slipped. "What's up?" she added haphazardly, falling from her leaning position.
"Have I caught you in a bad time?" asked Sherlock.
"No – no!" said Molly.
His head tilted as he regarded her. "Are you alright?" he asked.
"I – I – you – you make me so nervous!" she burst out finally. "Look, I know it's not your fault, but I'm constantly stressed out by you – I don't know what to do, and hardly what to say – and you – you – I can barely feel my fingers right now! Is that normal?" she took a deep breath, nearly in tears, and looked at Sherlock again, his face was an odd mixture of amusement and worry, and he stepped forward – trying to calm her down.
She batted his hands away, continuing with the manicness of someone who had truly lost her mind. "I feel like it should be considered a medical condition, don't you think? I mean – look, I'm doing it again – I just start rambling, and the only reason I could keep it together before was because we stuck to being not friends. Rivalries I can understand! I may like pink and kittens, but I like a rivalry. Because where do we go from here? Do we date? Do we fuck? Do we snog? And I feel like I'm in fourth year again, with an idiotic crush which stops me from breathin- mpfff."
He'd kissed her.
Her mind became completely and blissfully blank. She could feel his fingers on her jawline, his curls under her hands. She couldn't think of anything – not even her nervousness, or her anxiety. He stopped as suddenly as he started.
"Am I clear?" he asked her forcefully.
"Um."
"Molly," said Sherlock. "Do I make myself clear?" he continued.
"Um," said Molly, her eyes flying upward worriedly, as if categorizing everything that happened in a new way.
"Merlin," muttered Sherlock.
"Wait, so we fuck?" asked Molly worriedly. "I don't want to do something stupid."
"You're not alone," said Sherlock. "If you think you haven't done this, you'd be happy to read some of John's descriptions of my missing heart."
"Biologically impossible," said Molly, looking at his eyes.
"I told him that," said Sherlock.
Her breathing was hitched. "Besides, most of hormone regulation takes place in the glands – not in the heart," continued Molly.
"Precisely," said Sherlock, his breath on her lips. His everything was so close, she could feel all sorts of strange things happen inside her – they said butterflies nested in your stomach when you were in love, but Molly was certain she had cicadas inside.
"And whatever you think is heartache is just – um –" she swallowed. "Hormonal reaction." His eyes were changing colour, she was certain – as temperamental and changing as the sea that they were inspired by. God had painted him well.
"I know," he said.
"It feels fantastic," confessed Molly in a whisper.
"Why do you think I'm here?" said Sherlock before he kissed her again.
When people liked each other, the strangest things tended to happen around them. Cups would fall and shatter – absentminded hearts reacting to absentminded concerns. Red seemed sharper around people in love, as if some primal part of the heart amplified itself in everyone who looked upon them. Green became softer, gentler – just a little kinder, and blue became absurdly bright.
Storms start to make sense. Thunder chats with the rain, lightning wonders. The wind blows with a little more mischief in its footsteps, sounding more and more like an ocean – carrying laughter on its back, for once.
Butter melted in the household whenever someone was in love. And it was with some surprise that the house elves found a lot the butter in puddles one morning – because, because, because – summer was coming.
"Lumos," she whispered.
Light reached into the corners of the hallway, curling its toes as it touched everything softly.
The spell was really a godsend, she thought fervently. She didn't fancy roaming the castle halls with a candle, like a Victorian ghost. For any wandering busybodies, that's exactly what she would look like – and Hogwarts had a fair share of ridiculous legends without Molly accidentally adding to them.
By the time she reached her destination, she was sure it would be close to twelve at night. The witching hour, as one of her Enid Blyton's had reminded her. She opened the door gently, softly, and entered the room. Before she could shut the door, it slammed behind her. Her wrists were caught in his hands, pressed to the woodwork which was probably ancient and worth more than six months of her salary.
Sherlock's hands, however, cared little. Molly found herself loosing clothes readily and quickly. She had to come up for air when his lips finally left hers, finding the spot right below her jaw that nearly made her mad.
"Hi," she said finally.
"Hello," he said.
"One of these days, we're going to get caught," said Molly quietly.
"Almost everyone here has half a brain. I wouldn't worry too much," said Sherlock, without letting her go.
"I'm sure Mary and Meena were looking at me funny."
"You were wearing a jumper with flamingoes on it," Sherlock pointed out.
"That's no excuse!" said Molly defensively.
His lips turned upwards into a small smile. The kind reserved for when Molly surprised him.
"I'm sure," he said.
"Questions?" called Sherlock.
Molly looked around the classroom, hoping to spy unsure faces. Everyone seemed to be in good condition with their independent studies, so she wasn't too worried about anyone.
A tentative hand went upward.
"Yes, Boot?" asked Holmes.
"Professor Hooper, do you think you could help me with my Puffapods?" she asked.
"What's wrong with them?" asked Molly.
"They aren't responding to my fertiliser," she said quietly.
Sherlock and Molly shared a quick look. "Absolutely," said Molly. "I suppose you have some time in the seventh period? I'll see you in Greenhouse three."
Felicity Boot looked pale, but she nodded. She had become a much better student lately, and Molly wanted to make sure that her depression didn't come back for her.
Another hand went up. "Weasley?" said Molly.
"Are you both still fighting?" he asked cheekily.
Sherlock's nostrils flared. "Professor Hooper and I have professional disagreements over academic disputes regularly."
Molly rolled her eyes. That would convince them, she thought to herself. And then, I'd better do something about this.
"Not that it's any of your business, Weasley, but Professor Holmes and I have found ourselves on opposite ends of the Lunar Transference Theory, which is a highly fought over academic theory," she said crisply.
"What, like old men in tweed jackets saying things like 'preposterous!'" snickered James.
Molly smiled. "Too many movies, James," she said. The boy went red, which she ignored completely. "No, when I say disputed, I mean, there have been entire academic panels that have been derailed, a small duel in nineteen eighty four which caused five serious injuries and luckily, no deaths, as well as a universal ban as a conversation in most famous academic conferences."
She turned to the board, flicking her wand so that it scribbled the words neatly, Lunar Transference Theory: A Beginner on it.
"I'd suggest you don't read anything other than that, or you'll find yourself in a theoretical rabbit hole. Please go to Professor Holmes if you want views that oppose mine." She added a realistic shudder of revulsion.
Sherlock looked mildly impressed.
"Class dismissed!" called Molly.
"They're snogging on the side, right?" asked Fred.
"Oh, yeah," said Sarah Thomas.
"Doubtless," said James, with a sheepish grin.
"It goes without saying," said Felicity Boot with a slight smile.
Molly's feet were up in her greenhouse, her glasses perched on her nose. She was reading in that way it happens sometimes, when it occurs as naturally as speaking – the words had formed an aura around her head, crawling over her hair like many legged insects, resting on her scalp and falling through to her brain.
If someone was looking, that is.
Sherlock entered, and without disturbing her for a minute, reached for the venomous tentacula samples she had laid out neatly for him. She barely looked up from her book as she handed him a scalpel, a swab, and a slide.
Sherlock paid no attention to her and her words. They were far in the background of whatever new poison he was investigating. Murders made Sherlock seem farther and closer away at the same time. The poisons he would investigate, they tended to tinge his fingers in rainbow.
If someone was looking, that is.
"Quick thinking, the Lunar Transference Theory," commended Sherlock.
"Thanks," said Molly, flipping a page.
"Where do you stand on that one?" asked Sherlock as nonchalantly as possible.
"Let's not," said Molly, her eyes still glued to her book – but a small, impossible smile on her face. "This might be over before it started if we actually find ourselves on opposite ends of that."
Sherlock was smirking.
"Professor Hooper, I do wonder."
"Don't pretend it doesn't turn you on," said Molly, her eyes flicking upward for the briefest minute to look at him.
He regarded her slyly from the side. "You ought not to bite your lips in class, you know," he said. "If Lunar Transference Theory wasn't enough."
Even though Molly didn't look up from her book, she went a bright, noticeable red.
Molly raised her wand.
"Don't blow them up, Hooper, that's the last of my Devil's Snare samples," said Draco from the side.
"Yes, mother," said Molly.
"If I was your mother, you would never have been so molly coddled," said Draco examining a potion in the light. "And Holmes wouldn't have been allowed two feet in your direction."
Molly rolled her eyes.
Sherlock entered the lab at that minute, and Molly sighed. She lowered her wand and looked up at him, willed herself to not turn bright red in his presence.
"Molly, once you're done with those, I need you to dissect a liver."
"Lucky me," said Molly.
"I know," said Sherlock. "I'm going to Ollivander's with John, I need some wands analysed."
"Have fun," said Molly, returning to the Devil's Snare.
"And –"
"The blood panel is on the counter there," said Molly.
"Thank you," said Sherlock shortly.
The doors swung open, but Molly forced herself to not look after the retreating Sherlock. She was about to perform the spell when Draco asked, "so you're alright around him?"
"I'm a professional," said Molly, quickly, looking up from the samples.
Draco was studying her in that way he did sometimes. She had never really been able to place the look, when it occurred to her that it was a Dad stare. It was the watchful gaze of a man who had probably seen through an eight year old's claim that the antique chess set fell because of the cat. The scrutinising look of someone who knew that there was spilled pumpkin juice on the other side of the sofa cushion, but was kind enough not to say anything.
Molly wriggled uncomfortably.
"Merlin save us," murmured Draco finally. "You shagged him."
Molly's face must have said what she couldn't, because Draco didn't wait for her to confirm or deny. "Christ, what a waste of precious time." He returned to his own set of samples.
"Excuse me?" asked Molly, her voice high.
"All that agonisation, and you did end up sleeping with him," said Draco, without looking up. "Don't worry, you didn't give anything away. It was all him."
Molly paused. "Some relief."
And when he looked up, Molly was shocked to see that he was smiling. "Don't take this the wrong way, Hooper, but I'm a little pleased."
Molly gaped. "That's a glowing review."
He continued doing that smiling thing. "I'm going to tell Astoria, if you don't mind."
"Oh, wonderful," muttered Molly. "I suppose it's your right."
"It is," he said.
"It's been rather like fourth year indeed, hasn't it?" said Molly. "I had a crush on him in school as well."
"I would never have guessed," said Draco. "It's not been… bad," he continued quietly. "I… would never have actually seen this – kind of thing – when I was in fourth year."
Molly waited for him to finish his thought.
"You and I wouldn't have been friends," said Draco. He looked mildly nauseated by the fact. "And – my friends – they weren't well known for being the kind of people to simply – chat."
Molly's face broke into a grin. Molly tended to break into smiles that took up her face whenever she saw kindness which left her speechless. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me."
"Don't get used to it," he said shortly.
But it was easy to get used to nice things, particularly when they seemed to make so much sense. When people become kinder to each other, they pour colours into one another – gently, the way you would water plants. And everything in the world seems to just become a little more colourful.
And in the beginning, it was all suppressed smiles and quiet words. In the beginning, they were in each other's office when everything was burning hot and everything was pumping hearts. People could sense the high strung sexual tension and it made everyone sigh involuntarily periodically. People tend to do that when there are people in love in the vicinity.
Molly would find herself blushing red when she noticed Sherlock watching her at the Teacher's table. Sherlock would find himself at a loss for words in the middle of the lab when she innocently used a little innuendo. In the middle of class, Molly would find herself unable to control herself when Sherlock would begin lecturing – and Sherlock had to adjust his pants at times when Molly would begin scribbling on the board.
And then things shifted from bizarre into comfortable.
They didn't always find themselves needing each other's lips. Sometimes, they reached for each other's arms, legs, the cavities formed in between the knee and the chest. Things slipped from pressure to flow, from stress and anxiety to quiet, unsaid comfort.
And that's when the problem occurred. Since Molly was petrified of people finding out, she tended to school herself more and more, become more and more professional around Sherlock. Mimicking her, Sherlock was a lot quicker when he spoke to her.
And then people stopped sighing involuntarily. That's when people started watching.
"Are you sure about this?" hissed Albus. "It's late and we could get into a lot of trouble for this."
Considering he was Harry Potter's son, Albus Potter was ridiculously cautious. He looked around the cupboard they had decided to rendezvous in, and he felt more and more unsure by the second.
"Positive," whispered Rose. "Anyway, we couldn't have met until after the rest of the houses have fallen asleep."
"Damn inconvenient, having you in Ravenclaw," added Scorpius.
"Damn inconvenient, having you both in Gryffindor. Blockhead house," said Rose loftily, wrinkling her nose.
"Why are we doing this again, Rose?" asked Albus nervously.
"We want Acromantula Venom, come hell or high water," said Rose.
"Why?" moaned Scorpius.
"I've got to test it out for some potions."
"And there's no way for us to get it any other way, I suppose," sighed Scorpius.
"Look, you heard Hagrid. We just have to sneak to his hut a little late in the night, and then to the Forbidden Forest we go. You shouldn't be too scared – I've heard both your fathers did it in their first year. I mean – Mum did it with them, too."
"Dad has a lot of explaining to do," said Albus, pinching his brow.
"Anyway, I borrowed James' map," continued Rose. She unfolded it neatly.
"This is blank," exclaimed Scorpius. "Rose Potter, if you have us out on a wild goose chase, I will murder you. The geese will be after you."
"Geese? Malfoy, come on, get your act together. Albus. Do something about him."
Albus looked imploringly at Scorpius.
"If you would shut up, maybe I'd unlock it," said Rose coldly. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
The ink of the map bloomed, tracing lines and patterns.
"So cool," said Scorpius.
Rose smiled. "I know. I've tried to look it up – it comes from a long, long time back. James stole it from Uncle Harry, so I couldn't quite ask him. Mum said that Uncle Harry's father and his friends made it. It's really old."
"Some big brother James is," grumbled Albus.
"Hush, Al," said Rose. "I would kill to know how they did it. But everyone who made it is dead, so –"
"What, Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs?" asked Scorpius.
"Mum was a bit cagey about who they were. She said ask Uncle Harry. Which I wouldn't dare do."
"Nice to know there are some things you wouldn't dare do," said Albus. "Anyway, Peeves is up in the Trophy room. Probably bouncing around, destroying things."
"Mrs. Norris isn't around either," said Scorpius. "Woah, hang on –"
"What?" asked Rose, worried. "Is it Filch?"
"No – it's something weirder," frowned Scorpius.
He pointed at the map.
"Why are Professor Holmes and Professor Hooper in the same room?" he asked, perplexed.
Rose's eyes widened, and she looked at Albus. Albus snatched the map.
"That's – uh –" he began.
"Bizarre," finished Rose, snatching the map herself.
"They're too close together," added Albus. "And they seem to be sleeping. At least, they're marked on the bed and aren't moving."
"That close?" asked Rose, alarmed.
"Is it a bunk bed?" asked Scorpius timidly.
They both turned to look at him with their eyebrows raised. "Are you eleven, Scorp?" asked Rose dangerously. They bickered for a while over the merits and demerits of having Scorpius on a team that was clearly older than him. The conversation subsided again to Professor Holmes and Hooper – and Rose smiled, finally, because they looked good together. Albus and Scorpius snorted – and a few slightly sexist comments were made about the way fourteen year old girls thought.
Eventually, though, it was decided that they had more pressing appointments than whatever the love life between their professors was.
A very dangerously risky walk into the forbidden forest, a close shave with an acromantula colony, and a large pint of venom later, they were pleased with the night's happenings. Rose's Ravenclaw friends were curious about everything that happened and there were squeals when it was accidentally revealed that Hooper and Holmes were so in love. Rose couldn't confirm how she knew this, which is why the rumours started flying quite wildly.
Georgia Corner dreamily mentioned that Professor Holmes was incredibly handsome, to which Lisa Barrow derisively responded by saying Professor Holmes was unbearably rude, and Professor Hooper was much nicer and anyway, she was prettier.
By evening, Hogwarts was awash with rumours of how they were completely in love. The names of the people to have discovered it changed with each wild rumour – but confirmed, it was. James Potter raked in his galleons, now that the pool was finished, and everyone was satisfied with the state of affairs.
The staff room was cool during the lunch hour. It was a refuge at the moment, too, since the teachers were served separately during lunch – barring the ones who were in charge of being in the Great Hall to ensure no one killed someone.
Meena walked in and settled down in one of the couches, glanced at Mary and smiled. Mary was reading something, and Meena didn't care what it was. John nodded to her, chewing on what looked like honey glazed chicken. "Looks good," said Meena.
Mary was preoccupied with her book. "Mm."
"By the by," continued Meena. "Molly and Sherlock are shagging."
John swallowed his chicken. Irene settled down nonchalantly beside Meena. Rutherford and Thurse, too, were watching, which was interesting.
"Proof?" asked Mary, finally looking up.
"Walked past them making out in a classroom," said Meena. "They've become careless. Door was ajar, not closed."
"To be fair to them, they were bound to be caught sooner or later," said Irene. "Even the kids know. Rumours have been going wild for quite some time now."
"You owe me ten," added Meena. "Easter."
"It's not Easter yet!" said Mary indignantly.
"Nothing happened by Christmas, so by default, I win," argued Meena.
The conversation continued this way for sometime – at least, until Meena went to pile her plate high with chicken and Molly walked in. She didn't look at all out of place, not a hair out of her hair tie – her clothes perfectly maintained. She didn't even have a blush on her face.
A few minutes later, Sherlock showed up. His shirt was untucked, his hair looked as if they had been through a wind tunnel – he was slightly red, and moreover, a little breathless.
Everyone in the staffroom rolled their eyes. John Watson, in particular, was grinning.
Molly slipped toward the kitchen station in the staff room, presumably to help Sherlock make a cup of tea.
"See you tonight?" she asked quietly.
"Nine PM," said Sherlock.
"Right," she nodded. "Goodness, all this sneaking is becoming very stressful."
Mary, who had been sitting on a sofa nearby, flipped a page of her magazine. "We all know," she announced, without looking away from her magazine.
Molly and Sherlock froze.
"What?" asked Molly tentatively.
"Everybody knows," deadpanned Meena, while Irene snorted into her coffee.
"Hagrid?" asked Molly desperately.
"Sorry Molly," said Hagrid, kind enough to look a little embarrassed.
"As if Sherlock would voluntarily make tea," said John, picking up his stack of unchecked essays.
"Um," said Molly. "Okay then."
Before she could say anything, Sherlock had slipped his hand into hers experimentally. She knew it was an experiment, because Sherlock would never do that otherwise.
"We are in school!"
"Put that away at once, Holmes."
"Think of the children."
And Molly grinned.
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