Potterlock – The Chamber of Secrets

Author's Note: Well, after a drive spanning about ten hours in total across what I'm pretty sure is the entirely of France, am writing this in my French cottage bedroom. Had my brain thoroughly scrambled and then washed out completely due to crazy roller-coasters at Parc Asterix followed by torrential rain while queuing for the biggest motherf***er of them all that I'm fairly certain gave me genuine concussion. Still, the show must go on, so I present for your entertainment and (hopefully) delight, Potterlock Part 2 – Chapter 3. I know it may seem like I'm just paraphrasing the book at the moment, but I promise I'll be branching out in future chapters. I'll probably be uploading Chapter 4 sometime tomorrow. Free cyber-hugs ansd jam for everyone who reviews!

Chapter Three

October rolled around, bringing with it rain, chill, and – on the night of Halloween – a rather dramatic turn of events. The Halloween Feast was as excellent as it had been last year (though without the troll that had been let loose in the dungeons) and John was feeling full and content as he and Sherlock made their way from the Great Hall. Since his revelation as to his feelings for Sherlock, John had decided that the best course of action was to repress them – utterly. It was proving quite a difficult task, but it was better than the alternative – confessing his feelings and not only getting shot down in flames, but losing his best friend entirely.

Accepting the fact that he was gay was surprisingly easier. Now that he knew for sure, it was almost like his brain had gone into overdrive. He started noticing minor things about his fellow male students that he would not have consciously seen two months ago. Like how Harry ran his hand through his hair when he was concentrating, or the way Oliver Wood's brow furrowed when he was poring over Quidditch game plans. But, true to his word, he'd not even thought twice about the way Sherlock rotated his wand-hand wrist upwards before performing a spell. Or how his left leg jiggled slightly when he was bored. Or the tiny lines that appeared at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. . .

Okay, so the whole not-fancying-Sherlock thing wasn't going quite as well as planned, but he was trying.

"What's going on?" John heard Molly's voice beside him and he blinked back to reality.

"Huh?"

"Everyone's going to the first floor girls' bathroom," she said, stepping aside so as not to be stampeded by a group of Slytherins led by Malfoy. "Something about Filch's cat."

She, John and Sherlock followed the crowd of pupils to the bathroom. The floor was flooded, and John could just see over the tops of people heads something hanging from the torch bracket below a message daubed in red paint on the castle wall: THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE. Molly clapped her hands over her mouth.

"It's Mrs. Norris!" she gasped, pointing at the stiff thing hanging from the bracket. "Ugh, horrible!"

"Crikey," John said, glancing at Sherlock. He was squinting, not at the immobile cat, but at the message on the wall, his dark eyebrows knitted in thought.

"Enemies of the heir, beware!" Malfoy's sneering voice carried over the crowd. "You'll be next, Mudbloods!"

"What's a Mudblood?" Molly asked John, as the sound of Filch shoving his way through the crowd caused them to step aside.

"No idea," John said, as the caretaker began to howl in horror at the sight of his cat, before rounding on Harry, accusing him of doing this to her. Before things got really out of hand, though, Professor Dumbledore's voice rang out through the corridor. He stepped right up to Mrs. Norris and plucked her from the bracket. She looked like a perfectly stuffed, slightly moth-eaten, toy. He, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Filch and Professors McGonagall and Snape followed a beaming Lockhart to his office, leaving the students in shocked silence. People slowly started to drift off down the corridors, Malfoy sniggering almost gleefully, and Molly left with a group of Gryffindor girls. John and Sherlock joined the small group of pupils standing in front of the wall, ankle-deep in water, staring at the mysterious message.

"D'you know what the Chamber of Secrets is?" John asked Sherlock, who nodded slowly.

"Mother told me about it," he said. "It's a secret chamber—"

"I guessed that."

"—that Salazar Slytherin built within the castle before he left."

"Why?"

"Because he wanted to accept only pure-bloods into the school," Sherlock explained. Some of the other students standing nearby starting hanging on his words. "The other founders disagreed and so he walked out. There was a story that the Chamber had a monster in it that Slytherin put there to dispose of all the Muggle-borns in the school, when his heir returned."

"Who's the heir?"

"No-one knows," Sherlock shrugged.

"Whoever it is," a nearby Hufflepuff girl says darkly, "looks like they're back."

"Could it just be a prank?" John said Sherlock as they moved away from the scene down the candlelit corridor. The sinister words daubed on the wall echoed in John's head, making the darkening passage seem a lot creepier than usual.

"Can't rule it out," Sherlock said. He had that slight crinkle between his eyebrows that John knew meant he was still deep in thought. He also looked slightly annoyed, which John also knew meant he couldn't think of an explanation for the incident, which frustrated him – Sherlock didn't like not knowing.

"What's a Mudblood?" John asked.

Sherlock's irritation was replaced by a look of distaste. "It's an offensive term for a witch or wizard with Muggle parentage," he said. "It's not a name one would normally hear from anyone with real class."

"Like calling a black person the N-word?"

"Pretty much."

"Nice."

"Exactly."

"So. . . I'm one," John said.

"No," Sherlock said gruffly. "Well. . . yes, but only scum like Malfoy would call you that. You're a wizard, just like him, and a better one."

John couldn't suppress the glow of appreciation and pride he felt. Sherlock wasn't one to throw compliments about to just anyone – he had to really mean it to offer one.

"But I am Muggle-born," he said, feeling the glow extinguish slightly by a tiny knot of fear. "And if Slytherin meant to get rid of all of them—"

"Hey," Sherlock stopped and pulled John round to face him, his pale eyes blazing into John's. "It could just be a prank, like you said. Someone probably got wind of Filch being a Squib and decided to punish him for it."

"A what?"

"No magic powers born from a wizarding family. Opposite of a Muggle-born."

"How d'you know he's one?"

"Have you ever seen him use a wand?" Sherlock snorted. "He's always whining about the mess students make – why not just whip it up with a scourging charm? Nah, he's definitely non-magic."

"You really think it's just a joke?"

"Almost eighty percent," Sherlock said with a smile that John knew was meant to be encouraging, but the falseness behind it didn't do much for his nagging doubt.

While John was not a Quidditch player himself, he enjoyed watching the sport, especially when Gryffindor was playing. Normally, Sherlock liked to avoid the school games – he said the noise and excitement annoyed him to the point of distraction – but this time John had managed to persuade him to come along, simply by pointing out that Malfoy was about to get his sorry butt kicked by Harry. Malfoy's father had bribed Draco's way onto the time, providing each of the Slytherin team members with new Nimbus Two-Thousand and Ones. While they certainly put the Comets and Cleansweeps that the Gryffindors flew to shame in terms of speed, they were no match for the red-and-gold-clad team's effort, co-operation, and Harry's keen Seeker skills. There was a look of grim resolve on each of the Gryffindor team-members' faces, and a glint of mad determination in Oliver Wood's eye. Harry gave Malfoy a look of deepest loathing as they mounted their brooms, which Malfoy returned with a sneer.

It wasn't ideal game weather – it was starting to spot heavy raindrops and the dark clouds above threatened more.

"C'mon, Harry," John muttered as Madam Hooch released the balls and sounded her whistle. The fourteen players rose into the air and he saw Harry's eyes immediately start darting round for the Golden Snitch. Malfoy zoomed beneath him, shouting some insult that Harry ignored. One of the Bludgers came pelting towards him, causing him to dodge out of the way, only for it to come straight back. One of the Weasley twins deflected it, but just for a moment before it came back for Harry as though magnetised.

"That's not right," John said to Sherlock, who was engrossed in the fingernails of his left hand.

"Hmm?" he looked up, squinting at Harry. "What's not?"

"That Bludger," John said, a little annoyed that Sherlock hadn't been paying attention. "It keeps trying to hit him."

"Isn't that what they're supposed to do?" Sherlock sighed, leaning on the rail in front of them. They'd managed to get spaces right at the front, to John's pleasure and Sherlock's indifference.

"Not at just one player," John said. On the pitch, Wood had called for a time-out, and the Gryffindors were huddled together to one side, while the Slytherins looked on in gleeful smugness. They were in the lead, sixty points to zero, and the other Slytherins in the stands were cheering.

"So one of the Slytherins must have tampered with it," Sherlock said, clearly no more interested in the game than he was about tomorrow's breakfast.

"But they're kept in Hooch's office between games," John said, trying to express to Sherlock how important this was. "They wouldn't have—"

"Does it really matter?" Sherlock said with an irritable groan. Rain was dripping off his hair and down his nose.

"It matters to me," John said sharply, causing his friend to look round. As much as he liked Sherlock – as much as he really liked Sherlock – he couldn't half be an insensitive knob at times.

"Sorry," Sherlock sighed. "But it's clearly a case of sabotage. The Slytherins probably got one of the house-elves to do it."

"House-elves?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Elf magic doesn't have the same limitations as wizard magic does. They can Apparate in and out of the castle, for one."

"What's that?"

"Disappearing and reappearing in another place," Sherlock said. Down below, the game was resuming play, Harry beginning an elaborate set of loops and swerves to evade the rogue Bludger. "Wizards can't do it inside Hogwarts," Sherlock continued. "House-elves can. Malfoy's family's no doubt got one – probably got his to do it."

John felt a new wave of dislike towards the green-clad Seeker, who was laughing heartily at Harry's attempts to avoid getting his skull smashed in. He wouldn't put it past him to do something like that, rotten little cheat that he was. He was just enjoying a short fantasy of clubbing Malfoy's smug face in with a Beater's bat, when his attention was brought sharply back to the game as the Bludger finally hit home on Harry's right elbow with a sickening crunch that echoed through the stadium. All the Gryffindors, and a good number of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, groaned and winced, while the Slytherins cheered and applauded. Miraculously, Harry stayed on his broom, and darted towards Malfoy like an arrow. John assumed he must have snapped and was going to pummel the sneering Slytherin with his good arm. Malfoy clearly thought so too, for he ducked, and Harry zoomed past, his working hand extended, reaching for a tiny spec of gold glinting just beyond his fingertips.

John grabbed Sherlock's arm, who was looking decidedly more interested. He was even leaning forward a little over the rail. He even gave a small smirk as Harry's fingers closed over the tiny ball and collapsed onto the grass.

"Reckon he's okay?" John asked once he'd stopped cheering.

"Shouldn't think so," Sherlock said, craning his neck slightly at the crowd that was gathering around Harry's unconscious body. "Uh-oh," he said.

"What?" Then John saw it too – Lockhart hurrying through the throng towards Harry. "Oh no. . ."

At the centre of the crowd, Harry tried to sit up, protesting against Lockhart's offers to help, but slumped again, wincing at the pain caused by his broken arm. John saw a first year boy whose name he thought was Colin something (Hogwarts' own paparazzi), eagerly taking pictures of the scene. Harry snapped something angrily at him, and then could only lie back, helpless, while Lockhart did some kind of twirly arm-motion that rendered Harry arm limp and thoroughly boneless.

"Wow," Sherlock said. John had a sneaking suspicion that he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"You're horrible," he said, as Ron and Hermione dragged poor Harry off the pitch to the Hospital Wing, while a sheepish-looking Lockhart laughed it off to the crowd. What a prat, John thought.

"Oh, I know," Sherlock said, unable to stop himself sniggering. "It was like a rubber glove."

Then he couldn't stop laughing. He was still giggling – Sherlock Holmes, giggling – when they reached the Great Hall for lunch. Unfortunately, his mirth was highly contagious, and John was having to force himself not to smirk every time someone mentioned Harry's misfortune.

"Well," Sherlock said, a little breathlessly, "I might have to attend more matches, if that's what I've been missing."

"They're not all that eventful," John said. "But yeah, you should. Sherlock, what're you doing?"

For, upon entering the Great Hall, Sherlock had turned the complete opposite direction to his House table and planted himself firmly on the end of the Gryffindor bench. A couple of fifth-year girls sitting on the other side looked at him, confused.

"Does it really matter where we sit?" Sherlock said, blinking up at John innocently. John's heart gave a flutter. "It's too boring over there."

"Uhh," Sherlock glanced up at the staff table. None of the teachers sitting there seemed to have noticed Sherlock's decisive change in placement, though he thought he saw Dumbledore give him the tiniest of smiles before returning his attention back to his plate. Shrugging, John sat down next to his friend and helped himself to shepherd's pie.

Throughout the meal, the other Gryffindors and some of the nearby Ravenclaws kept giving Sherlock bemused looks, which he completely ignored, but made John feel a little awkward. Whenever he caught the eye of one of his Housemates, he just gave an apologetic sort of shrug and focused on eating. It was nice having Sherlock sitting beside him, though. They talked about their latest stack of Transfiguration homework, and moaned about Lockhart's teaching ineptitude – a favourite subject of Sherlock's. They weren't so much learning from him anymore, rather he read out long passages of his books and shanghaied Harry into re-enacting them with him in front of the class. John had felt the heat of poor Harry's shame last lesson when he was forced to be a werewolf Lockhart apparently defeated single-handedly.

"It is all bollocks, isn't it?" John asked as the puddings appeared on the gleaming platters in front of them.

"Oh, totally," Sherlock nodded fervently. "I've certainly never heard of the 'Homorphous Charm'. I'd bet you a Galleon it's not real."

John shook his head, smirking. A forlorn-sounding sigh from across the table made him look up. Colin Something was perched on the edge of the bench, poking morosely at his chocolate trifle with his spoon.

"What's up, Colin?" John asked him. Colin looked up and sighed again.

"I feel bad," Colin said. "Harry was really annoyed when I was taking pictures of him at the match."

"Well, he was lying in the mud with a broken arm," Sherlock said. "Times and places, you know. . ."

"You," John said with a reproachful nudge in his friend's ribs, "are no-one to talk when it comes to tact." He smiled back at Colin. "I'm sure he won't be mad when he gets out of the Hospital Wing," he assured him. "Not once Madam Pomfrey's grown his bones back."

Some of Colin's glumness was replaced by a spark of interest and his eyes widened. "She can do that?" he asked in wonder.

"Of course," John said. Sherlock had told him about a case when he was seven and Mycroft had accidentally managed to vanish the bones from his own left thumb while practicing a spell. He'd had to take this horrible potion called Skele-Gro. "He'll be fine."

"Oh good," Colin said, eyes shining. "He's, like, my idol."

"Never would have guessed," Sherlock said dryly, but the sarcasm was clearly wasted on the excitable first-year.

"D'you reckon he'd mind if I visited him this evening?" Colin asked.

"Um, well," John wasn't sure Harry's forgiveness would stretch to being ogled at by Colin when he was lying in a hospital bed having his bones painfully re-grown.

"Of course he wouldn't mind," Sherlock said jovially. "Bring him some grapes, while you're at it."

"Great!" Colin said, grabbing a bunch from a nearby fruit-bowl. "I'll tell him you say hi when I go, okay?"

"Make sure you do," Sherlock said, and the small boy hurried off. "What?" he asked, in response to John's less-than-impressed look.

"I see you're feeling vindictive today," he said, shaking his head.

"Nah, just. . . playful," Sherlock said. His amusement at Harry's accident had clearly affected him a bit too much, John thought. He was now on one of his weird highs.

"Sherlock, you are about as playful as Professor Snape," John said. "You're just being mean."

"But gleefully so," Sherlock grinned broadly. Despite his exasperation, John felt that (now familiar) swooping sensation in his stomach he experienced whenever his friend smiled like that. It only happened when he was on a high, which made John almost wish they happened more often – though not when he was encouraging first-years to torment John's Housemates.