Potterlock – The Chamber of Secrets
Author's Note: Johnlockians, doors to manual. John first starts questioning the underlying feelings he has for Sherlock. Soon, I know, but I couldn't not – it was like fighting against nature itself. My OTP was screaming to be let out. Would like to take a moment to thank my most recent reviewer – The girl with the Purple Tips – for my second proposal of marriage upon writing this series. I feel specially special :P Anyway, enjoy!
Chapter Two
The large clock hanging from platform nine had just struck 10:45 when John and his mother reached it. John gripped the handles of his trolley – bearing a large wooden trunk and Hector's cage – and lined it up to give himself a clear run at the barrier that would take him to the hidden magic platform nine and three-quarters. Mrs. Watson put a hand on her son's shoulder and together they moved forward until the mundane Muggle station was replaced by the new, crowded platform where a scarlet steam engine – the Hogwarts Express – was waiting to be boarded.
"You'd better get a seat," Mrs. Watson said as they dodged round two young boys and their father. The older of the boys had a large camera slung round his neck and had the same look of unbridled excitement that John had had the year before.
"Bye M—" John started to say, before finding himself – as he'd anticipated – enveloped in an enormous hug, the top of his head peppered with kisses, causing a couple of nearby second-year girls to giggle.
"Mum, gerroff!" he wriggled free and she smiled tearfully down at him.
"Keep yourself self, Johnny," she said, stroking his hair flat.
"I will," John replied, running a hand across his head to mess it up again.
"Bye, my love," she said, giving him one last kiss before he turned to board the train. A tall fifth-year boy helped him load his trunk into the nearest compartment and up onto the rack. John recognised him as the Captain on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team – Cedric Diggory.
"Thanks," he smiled at the handsome Seeker, who gave him a good-natured pat on the shoulder.
"Don't mention it," he grinned back, and went off to join his friends. John was momentarily stunned by just how good-looking he was. Shaking his head of this thought, he sat down in the compartment and stared out of the window, where his mother was still standing, waving anxiously at him.
"Hi, John," a cheerful voice said from the door, and he turned to see his Housemate Molly Hooper standing there, flanked by Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown. Her hair was tied back in a French plait rather than its usual ponytail and, like Hermione when John had seen her in Gringotts, she appeared to have a grown an inch or so.
"Hey, Moll!" he beamed, leaping up to give her a warm hug. He'd missed her too over the holidays, though she'd been a lot more responsive in sending him letters throughout the summer.
"Um, Sherlock not here yet?" she asked, trying to sound casual, and John couldn't suppress a smirk as he sat back down. He knew full well that Molly held something of a candle for Sherlock, even if the genius himself wasn't aware of it. Wit beyond measure indeed, except when it came to matters of the female heart.
"Not yet," John said. "I'll tell him you said— hey!"
John's heart leapt as his tall, curly-haired friend stepped into view through the sliding glass panel, dragging his own trunk behind him. Parvati and Lavender collapsed into peals of not-so-silent giggles, and Molly's face turned peony.
"H-hi, Sherlock," she stammered.
Sherlock gave her a distracted nod and slid past her into John's compartment, settling down in the seat opposite him.
"C'mon, Moll," Lavender said, trying to suppress her excited laughter.
"Yeah, okay," Molly said, looking thoroughly reluctant to leave "Bye, John. Bye, Sherlock."
"See you later," John said, while Sherlock just raised a hand, his eyes fixed on the window.
"That hairstyle makes her forehead look too big," he said.
"Sherlock," said John reproachfully. "Whatever you do, don't say that to her face."
"I was about to before they left." The utterly insensitive Ravenclaw stretched his legs out and they heard the porter's whistle from the platform. John's eyes sought his mother, who started waving madly as the train slowly began to leave the station, the clouds of steam billowing from the engine almost obscuring her. John waved right up until the last moment when she disappeared from view as they rounded the bend, then he fell back in his seat and sighed. By the evening they would be fast approaching Hogwarts – with its secret passages, rotating staircases and magnificent feasts. His stomach grumbled at the thought of the sumptuous dinner he was planning on having when they got there.
Suddenly, making John jump, Sherlock leapt from his seat and pressed his nose right against the window, staring up at the sky.
"What?" John asked, leaning forward to glance up too, though all he could see was the sheet of clouds.
After a moment, Sherlock sat back. "Did you see Potter and Weasley board the train?" he asked.
John thought. Come to think of it, he hadn't. "No," he said. "Why?"
"Because my brother recently received intelligence that Arthur Weasley purchased a Muggle Ford Anglia."
A pause, in which John's brain whirred in thought. He desperately tried to keep up with Sherlock's racing intellect – a feat which mostly proved impossible, as it did now.
"So?"
"Mr. Weasley works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office," Sherlock explained, "and has something of an obsession with Muggle culture and technology."
"Shouldn't he?"
"That's not the point."
"What is, then?"
"The point is that neither Mycroft or myself would put it past him to do a bit of. . . tinkering on any of the Muggle objects he happens to invest in."
"Such as?"
"Such as enchanting a car so it can fly— Look, there!"
John turned his neck so fast he cricked it, just in time to see two sets of black wheels disappear in the haze of cloud.
"But why would Harry and Ron want to fly to school?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well, neither of them are the brightest gnome in the garden, are they?" Sherlock snorted. "I'd be willing to bet that if, for any reason, they found they couldn't get onto the platform, it wouldn't cross their minds to perhaps send an owl to McGonagall or Dumbledore, but instead to steal Mr. Weasley's car and fly it."
John's mouth was hanging open by this point. "Buy why wouldn't they be able to?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't figured that out yet."
"Blimey," John said, glancing up at the sky again, but there was no sight of a tyre now. "What a way to travel."
"I wouldn't envy them," Sherlock said with a small smirk. "It'll be absolutely boiling up there."
Just after midday, the witch with the trolley came round. John stocked up on Pumpkin Pasties and Cauldron Cakes for the rest of the journey, while Sherlock bought one solitary Liquorice Wand.
"So d'you reckon Lockhart will be a good teacher?" John asked Sherlock, munching through his third cake.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, his softened liquorice lolling out of his mouth like a black lizard's tongue. "I reckon he'll be very good at bigging himself up and boring us all rigid with his 'heroics'."
"You really have a bee in your bonnet about him, don't you?"
John was momentarily amused by the thought of Sherlock in a frilly bonnet, and pursed his lips to stop himself bursting out into laughter.
"Have you read any of his books?"
"So, he's a bit conceited. Okay, very conceited. But look at all that stuff he says he's done."
"That's just it!" Sherlock said, leaning forward and pointing a long finger at John. "Says he's done. Where is the actual documented proof that he ever actually did any of those things?"
"Surely someone would have stepped forward if he'd been making it up. One of the villagers, maybe."
"There is such a thing as memory modification, John," Sherlock said darkly.
"Why're you so convinced he's lying?"
Sherlock sat back and rested the tips of his fingers together. He looked like a Bond villain.
"In all the records of Hogwarts students, not once is he mentioned as being even remotely exceptional. All this 'talent' just spawned from nowhere about five years ago, and shops started spewing this swill like it was gospel. Nobody even thought to consider it slightly fishy."
"Everyone loves a hero," John shrugged. "Especially handsome ones."
"Ridiculous," Sherlock muttered. "Petty."
"Bet he was a Hufflepuff," John smirked. "Nobody that goofy could. . . what?"
Sherlock's fingers had balled into fists, his mouth twisting sourly. "He wasn't a Hufflepuff," he said. "He was a Ravenclaw."
There was a brief pause before John burst out laughing.
"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure," he guffawed. "More like a good dose of hair tonic!"
Sherlock's lips quirked, like he couldn't help himself, and he joined in John's laughter.
It was already darkening outside when the train rolled into Hogsmeade Station, and John could hear Hagrid's booming voice across the platform, ushering the trembling first years towards the lake for their traditional boat-ride to the castle. John was quite glad they'd be going up in the horseless carriages, since it was starting to spot with rain. They left their trunks on the platform to be taken to the castle separately, and climbed into a carriage with Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, and Terry Boot – one of Sherlock's fellow Ravenclaws.
Tired and hungry, there wasn't much conversation as the carriage trundled up the path towards the huge wooden doors of the castle. There still wasn't any sign of Harry or Ron – something that Hermione was clearly very nervous about – and the others had started to notice their absence as well. John could hear Draco Malfoy snidely wondering where they might be – whether Harry now considered himself too famous to join the common folk on the train. His thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, guffawed, and another Slytherin boy – whose name John remembered as Moriarty – gave an amused, slightly evil, smirk. He saw John looking and raised his eyebrows in a "what're you gonna do about it?" way. John frowned and Moriarty muttered something to Malfoy, who nodded with a malicious laugh.
"Why are all the Slytherins such gits?" John wondered aloud, turning his back on them, momentarily forgetting the House-placement of his friend's brother. "Sorry, I didn't mean Mycroft."
"You would if you met him," Sherlock said.
The great doors opened and they all trouped inside and into the Entrance Hall. A couple of ghosts were floating across the cathedral-high ceiling, and disappeared through the wall into the Great Hall just before the students did themselves.
"See you later," John said as Sherlock joined the rest of the Ravenclaws at the table next to John and his Housemates. He sat down between Molly and Dean and was staring longingly at his empty plate when the doors opened again and the first-years swarmed in – slightly damp and most of them looking petrified. John remembered well his own Sorting. The hat had originally wanted to put him in Hufflepuff, until something – it didn't say what – decided to put him in Gryffindor, which he was more than happy with. He had nothing against the Hufflepuffs – they were a generally decent, friendly lot, and just look at Cedric Diggory – but the stigma that came with it was something he could have easily done without.
Professor McGonagall was just calling the first name on her long list, when there was a deafening CRASH from outside the tall windows. Everyone turned just in time to see something large and square go sailing straight into a knobbly willow tree a short distance from the castle. The tree started creaking and groaning, and there was the sound of heavy wood on metal. Everyone in the hall was silent, staring out the window as the thumps grew more intense. Then, with a nod from Dumbledore, Professor Snape – the oily-haired Potions master – rose from his seat and exited the hall. People started to mutter amongst themselves, but Professor McGonagall gave them all a stern look and they fell silent again.
"What was that?" Molly whispered to John's right.
"Flying car," he replied. "Sherlock reckons, anyway."
"Did you say flying car?" Fred or George Weasley said from opposite him, a look of disbelief on his freckled face.
"We saw it above the clouds on the train," John said.
"Crikey," the other twin laughed. "Good old Ron – didn't know he had it in him!"
Anyone within a three-feet radius of him started whispering to each other, spreading the tale that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had flown a magic car to school all the way down the Gryffindor table. John saw Hermione give a disbelieving scowl.
John's stomach was growling quite profusely by the time the Sorting ended (with "Weasley, Ginny!" being made a Gryffindor – her face glowing almost as scarlet as her hair), and he had to stop himself plunging head-first into the nearest tureen of beef casserole when the spectacular dishes appeared. He helped himself to copious amounts of mashed potato, chicken legs, pork chops and baked beans, his cheeks bulging as he chewed and swallowed. About ten minutes into the meal, Snape re-entered the hall and said something to Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, who both set down their knives and forks and left the room again. Snape looked far too happy for Harry and Ron not to be in a considerable about of trouble.
"D'you think they'll get expelled?" Molly asked.
"Dunno," John said. "Snape obviously thinks so."
They didn't see Harry and Ron at all as the feast continued, and by the time the puddings had cleared and they were making their various ways to their Houses, most people were wholeheartedly convinced they had been expelled and were already on their way back to London. Malfoy certainly was.
"Even Saint Potter can't get away with everything," John heard him gloating a short way down the corridor. "Looks like the Gryffindors will be down a Seeker."
"He's such a scumbag," John said, scowling at the back of Malfoy's head as the Slytherins headed towards the dungeons.
"He's just jealous because everyone likes Harry so much," Molly said, hopping over a vanishing step on the rotating staircase. John had to do a kind of pirouette to stop himself sinking through it, remembering only at the last second, causing Dean and Seamus to laugh uproariously.
The question of Harry and Ron's expulsion was answered by the loud roar of admiration that greeted the two of them when they stepped through the portrait whole ten minutes after the other Gryffindors, followed by a shocked-looking Hermione. While they looked sheepish and tired, John could see that Ron was clearly pleased by the attention and even Harry was grinning. John clapped along with everyone else as the two heroes passed him to the boys' dormitory staircase. Harry caught his eye and grinned ruefully. John grinned back. Only Harry Potter could get away with driving a Muggle car straight into a slap-happy tree and, not only avoid expulsion, but live to tell the tale.
The first week of term passed by fairly non-eventfully, though not without some intrigue. Ron's mother sending him a screaming letter on Monday caused a bit of a stir as breakfast, and Lockhart set a load of pixies loose on them in their first Defence lesson, which pretty much solidified John's wavering opinions about the foppish bighead – he was clearly useless as a teacher. Then there was an (unfortunately funny) incident where Ron tried to curse Malfoy after he insulted Hermione, and ended up regurgitating slugs for the rest of the afternoon. Then, on Saturday night, the first slightly odd thing of the term happened. It was nearing twelve-thirty, and John was lying awake in bed, trying to convince his brain to let him go back to sleep. He'd woken from a dream that a giant mandrake in a pair of fluffy earmuffs was trying to beat him to death with Magical Me, while Lockhart sang opera nearby. He'd heard Harry come in after his detention with the real Lockhart some thirty minutes ago, and was just drifting off into a snooze again when Ron came stamping in, bringing with him a strong smell of polish. John could hear him grumbling about his sore arms to Harry in the darkness.
"How was it with Lockhart?"
Harry then spoke in a very low voice, but John could just about hear him telling Ron about a disembodied voice he'd heard while in Lockhart's office – a voice that, from the sound of it, was after something to kill.
"And Lockhart said he couldn't hear it?" Ron asked. "D'you think he was lying? But I don't get it – even someone invisible would've had to open the door."
"I know," said Harry. John heard the two of them climbing into their four-poster beds. "I don't get it either."
John lay awake for a good fifteen minutes after that, staring out of the window opposite his bed. It seemed to him that anything remotely strange or mysterious seemed to revolve around Harry, but even hearing voices was a bit worrying. Making a mental note to quiz Sherlock about it tomorrow, John pulled his covers right over his head and drifted off again.
"It's not really much to go on," Sherlock said the next day as the two of them headed towards the bathrooms. The showers were usually unoccupied this early on a Sunday, and neither of the boys were particularly keen on bathing before an audience. "Could've been tiredness."
"But it's such a creepy thing to hear," John said, ducking under Sherlock's arm as he held the bathroom door open. As they'd hoped, it was empty. "Let me rip you, let me tear you. . ." John shuddered.
"Could've been one of the ghosts," Sherlock said, pulling off his robes and hanging them on a hook by the showers. "The Bloody Baron, maybe."
"Or Peeves," John said, wrapping his towel around his waist as they walked through the footbaths to the cubicles.
"Nah, Peeves is way too crude for that," Sherlock shook his head. "He'd probably just upturn old chamber-pots on their heads or something."
"Nice," John grimaced.
They hung their towels on the rack and stepped into separate cubicles. John got a quick glimpse of Sherlock before he closed the door behind him. Over the summer, Sherlock had gained a bit of muscle in his arms and torso, making him more lithe than the bony skinniness he'd sported last year. It was a nice effect, John couldn't help but think as he turned on the water and stepped under the spray. He ran his hands over his own, slightly podgy stomach, and vowed to stave off cakes for a while. It was pretty hard not to develop even the smallest image problem when Sherlock Holmes was your best friend – he was so tall and effortlessly handsome, even if he didn't realise it himself. While Sherlock's fan-base within the castle seemed to have lessened since last year (now that people were starting realise just how arrogant and insensitive he could really be when he got going), John still caught some of the girls ogling him as he passed in the corridor.
Even John himself found that sometimes, when they were just chilling in the Library or down by the lake, there was a certain pleasantness in observing Sherlock. If it was a sunny day, he would sometimes fall asleep under the trees and John would often take the opportunity to stare at him. He didn't even realise he was doing it some of the time. Sherlock Holmes was, there was no denying it, a work of art – with those tangled dark curls, high cheekbones and perfect, Cupid's bow mouth. Even his goddamn neck – pale and elegant, with the slow curve into his shoulder just made for burying one's face in and kissing—
John blinked and stood straight to attention. God, where had that come from? He didn't move for a second, his heart thumping a little harder in his chest. He'd actually been thinking about kissing Sherlock – his best friend! That couldn't be right, could it? John put a hand over his eyes and leaned against the wall. This was just one more thing to add to the list of strange feelings he'd been having for a while. Like when Cedric had helped him with his trunk on the train, or when Harry had smiled at him that night after the car crash. He'd felt a slight stir in his stomach both those times, too. His heart had started fluttering, his cheeks going red. But this was even worse!
Oh, Merlin's pants.
John pressed both his hands to his face, his wet body slipping down the wall until he sat on the floor. Looking up, he could just see the tips of Sherlock's raised elbows above the low cubicle wall as he washed his hair. His stomach did a flip-flop as he imagined the trails of foam moving slowly down Sherlock's lean body, his narrow hips, his long, long legs. . .
No! John smacked himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand. He mustn't think that. Sherlock was his friend. His best friend. No matter what his stupid feelings might hope for, that's all he was. Besides, Sherlock wasn't into guys. Sherlock wasn't into anyone. John was struggling to get to grips with the prospect that he was into guys. It would make a lot of sense, and would explain all the strange feelings he'd had when Sherlock was around at the end of last year. John vividly remembered a time when the two of them had been down by the lake – following an argument – and Sherlock had confessed that John was the only friend he'd ever had. John could feel the warm sense of pride and joy he'd felt at those words – the leap in his chest when Sherlock smiled at him. They were as close as any twelve year old best friends could be – just as close as Harry and Ron. But John was fairly certain Harry didn't feel an overwhelming leap of joy in his chest when his best friend stepped in the room. Unless John was just really, really pathetic, the only explanation could be that he. . . fancied. . . Sherlock Holmes.
"You nearly done?" Sherlock asked through the wall.
"Uhh," John clambered to his feet, slipping slightly on the tiles. "One minute."
He lathered up his hair with shampoo so vigorously he scratched his scalp with his nails. He heard Sherlock exiting his cubicle and rinsed the foam from his head before turning the water off. He opened his door a bit and unhooked his towel from the wall outside, wrapping it round his waist and coming out. Coming out. What a choice set of words. John suppressed a groan at his own misfortune and sat down next to Sherlock on one of the benches that lined the centre of the bathroom, trying not to even look at his friend's naked torso.
"You okay?" Sherlock asked. The sod had always had an uncanny ability to sense any change in John's mood, even in the slightest measure.
"Yeah, fine," John said, a little too quickly, but thankfully Sherlock didn't seem overly interested. He stretched out his long legs, leaning his head back, and John chanced a glance. Sherlock's springy hair was sticking out every which-way, roughly towel-dried, his skin still shiny with water, his bare chest almost glowing pale in the morning light from the windows around the bathroom walls. It wouldn't have surprised John if Sherlock turned out to be some kind of superhuman, or an alien. Was it merely Sherlock's appearance that drew John's attention so intensely to him? Sherlock could be irritating, arrogant, downright spiteful at times. He could also be funny, deeply passionate, and even vulnerable in the right light. He was a smorgasbord of emotions, almost bipolar with his mood swings. All in a twelve year old's body. John dreaded to think what he'd be like as an adult – insufferable, probably, and bloody gorgeous.
They dried themselves in silence, backs to each other, and were just pulling on their robes when a small group of Hufflepuff first-years came in.
"Timed it pretty well," Sherlock said. The castle was starting to fill with students, all making their way either to the bathrooms or to breakfast. John's stomach murmured. Sherlock grinned. "Better get some food into you," he said.
John forced a laugh, feeling thoroughly miserable, and followed his best friend – just friend – into the Great Hall.