The Chamber of Secrets as told by John Watson

by Spinning-In-Infinity

Tada! The second entry in my seven-part Potterlock Saga. There's something curious and evil happening at Hogwarts - Muggle-borns are being attacked. Could Sherlock perhaps unveil the truth before harm befalls his own Muggle-born best friend? As with the first half, rated M for upcoming Johnlock in later parts. Please review!

4. Chapter 4

Potterlock – The Chamber of Secrets

Author's Note: Been listening to my "Johnlock and Friends" playlist on my iPod a lot while writing this. My number one Johnlock/Sherlock songs (mostly found on YouTube fan videos) are:

Echo – Jason Walker (video by Louise1552)
Do It To Me (Acoustic) – This Century
Falling For You – Nick Howard
Hopeful Romantic – This Century
Moves Like Jagger – Maroon 5 (video by devotfeige)
One Thing – One Direction (video by Laurtew – please don't laugh, it just fits)
Smile – Uncle Kracker
Sound of Fire – This Century
Teenage Dream – Glee Cast

Seriously, look up the ones I've given the video names for – they're really worth watching.
Okay, so this chapter features a side of Sherlock that's not really been seen before. Being twelve years old, he's not quite evolved into the fully matured Sherlock we know and love – and part of him's still just a kid who can't quite express how truly happy he is at some things.
P.S. Apologies for the "oooooooooo" – whenever I add any other kind of punctuation or spacing to indicate a change of scene or time lapse, makes it magically disappear :P

Chapter Four

The news that Colin had been attacked in the same form as Mrs. Norris spread through the school faster than wildfire, and ignited a spark of panic amongst the students, especially those born to Muggle parents. The attack made Molly so fearful that she flatly refused to leave the Gryffindor Common Room after dinner, and wouldn't even go to the bathroom without two or three friends to accompany her. John wasn't quite so nervous, but he still found himself glancing over his shoulder more often than usual when walking down long corridors.

The attack had also had a profound effect on Sherlock – who was experiencing guilt for possibly the first time, as it was he who suggested Colin visit the Hospital Wing in the first place. He was sullen and withdrawn – even more than he was usually – during the days following the news, and had taken to sharply asking John where he was going if he so much as shifted in his seat. The fact that he was worried about him did please John somewhat, but it grew tiresome after a few days.

"I'm just stretching," John snapped in exasperation when Sherlock made a sharp movement in response to John uncrossing his legs on the settee one evening. Following his self-invite onto the Gryffindor table, he'd also become an unofficial guest in their Common Room of most evenings. Some of John's housemates found this strange, but when the issue was brought up with Professor McGonagall, she said that there wasn't any rule that stated Sherlock couldn't enter the Common Room, and as long as he didn't cause any real trouble while there, she saw no reason to oust him.

Sherlock settled back into the armchair he was sitting in, legs brought up and curled underneath him, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two open against his knees.

"Did you see the Duelling Club notice?" John asked, looking up from the long roll of parchment he was scribbling that week's Charms homework on.

"Mm," Sherlock said.

"Worth looking into?"

"Not really," the Ravenclaw shrugged. "No-one worth duelling."

"Well, I'm going," John said. Sherlock's head jerked slightly and he closed his book with a snap.

"D'you really want to?" he asked. John smirked inwardly. He couldn't help but love these moments when Sherlock actually took an interest in what he did. It did nothing for his attempts to quash his feelings for him, but it did fill him with a warm, fuzzy feeling that was considerably more preferable to the hopelessness he felt when his thoughts revolved around his unrequited attraction.

"Yes, Sherlock," he said. "It could be useful."

Sherlock seemed to face an inward battle for a moment. Crowding into the Great Hall with every (in his not-so-humble opinion) magically incapable student in the school, whipping their arses with one flick of a finger, was not Sherlock's idea of an evening well-spent. On the other hand, letting John go by himself seemed almost as intolerable. John was starting to feel more like Sherlock's newborn son rather than his best friend.

"Fine," Sherlock sighed. "You can go."

John was torn between amusement and indignation at this comment.

The night of the Duelling Club proved, if not particularly instructive (what could one really expect from further teachings by Lockhart?), but certainly illuminating in other ways. The fact that Harry was a Parselmouth, for one. According to Sherlock, the ability to communicate with snakes was not an ability most Gryffindors would covet, seeing as it was the trademark talent of Salazar Slytherin himself.

"Is there any chance Harry is related to Slytherin?" John asked him one day as they sat down at their usual table in the Library. John's Herbology lesson had been cancelled due to the heavy snowfall outside and Sherlock had decided to skip History of Magic to join him. The Library was fairly deserted – the other Gryffindors and Hufflepuff second-years were mostly in their Common Rooms – save for a couple of Ravenclaw sixth-years on a study period and a small table of Hufflepuffs John would have normally be sharing class with.

"It's certainly possible," Sherlock said, dropping his bag on the ground and reclining in his seat. "Mother has this ancient book on wizarding genealogy, and it looks like his father's line is pure-blood all the way – right back to the Peverells. Pretty much all pure-blood families are related nowadays."

"Does that mean that you and Harry are related?" John asked interestedly, for Sherlock was pure-blood himself.

"Maybe," he shrugged. "Very distantly though, if we are."

John folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them.

"I feel sorry for Harry," he said.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, closing his eyes against the bright winter light sifting through the window.

"Because everyone's gonna be thinking he's Slytherin's heir now, aren't they? Him, the one who got rid of You-Know-Who in the first place."

"They'll start thinking he only managed that because he's some powerful Dark wizard or something," Sherlock said. "You know how ignorant people are."

"I heard Macmillan from Hufflepuff talking about when we came in," John said, glancing over at the table nearest them, where Macmillan was muttering with his housemates. "He certainly reckons Harry's got something to hide."

"He's a narrow-minded moron," Sherlock said, none-too-quietly, and John smirked. "Potter's about as much Slytherin's heir as Filch is the next Merlin. People always jump to the easiest conclusion because they're too lazy or stupid to think outside the box."

"So who d'you think is Slytherin's heir?" John asked.

"Well, obviously a Slytherin," Sherlock said. "Wouldn't make sense to be anyone else, would it? Wouldn't surprise me if it was good old You-Know-Who himself."

"You mean he's come back?" John sat up, startled.

"No," Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John. "I mean he's one of the most powerful Dark wizards in history. He managed to possess Quirrell last year to get what he wanted, didn't he? He almost managed it. Who's the say he couldn't do it again by some other means?"

"So he could have possessed someone this time?"

"It's a possibility."

"Blimey."

"Yep."

They sat in silence for a moment, and Sherlock leaned back against the bookcase behind him. John eyed him subtly, admiring the perfection of his dark eyelashes and the way his chest gently rose and fell with each breath. He held back a wistful sigh and averted his attention to the now completely silent Hufflepuffs sitting by them. Harry was standing beside their table, looking thoroughly pissed off, and Macmillan looked like he'd just been Petrified himself.

"Sherlock," he muttered. Sherlock opened his eyes and followed John's eye-line.

"Hello," said Harry, an edge to his voice. Understandable. "I'm looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley."

John glanced at Sherlock, who was squinting pensively at Harry.

"What do you want with him?" said Macmillan shakily.

"I wanted to tell him what really happened with that snake at the Duelling Club," Harry said.

"We were all there. We saw what happened."

"Then you noticed that, after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?" Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

"Anyone with half a mind could see that," Sherlock muttered, as Macmillan argued back. "Why're Hufflepuffs so incorrigibly stupid?"

"I was nearly one," John reminded him.

"My point exactly," Sherlock smirked. John dealt him a kick under the table.

Harry stormed out of the Library, leaving the Hufflepuffs looking scared but thoroughly convinced that Macmillan's theory was entire true.

"C'mon," John said, shouldering his bag and getting to his feet, Sherlock following suit. He felt so angry on Harry's part, he couldn't resist pausing by the Hufflepuffs' table and saying coldly, "D'you honestly believe that he's the one attacking people?"

"All evidence points towards him," Macmillan said pompously. "You're just blinded by the fact that he's Gryffindor's golden boy."

"You're blinded by stupidity," John snapped. "Explain to me how a Gryffindor can possibly be the heir of Slytherin in the first place?"

"Well," Macmillan began, swallowed, and turned his back to John. "I don't have to explain anything to you, Watson, if you're too close-minded to think of it yourself."

In a flash, John saw Sherlock's foot hook round one of the legs of Macmillan's chair and tug it forcefully backwards, causing Macmillan to lose balance and almost knock his chin on the table.

"Let's go," he said to John, strolling calmly out of the Library, John following with one last contemptuous look at the stunned Hufflepuffs.

"I'd have expected that sort of thing from the Slytherins," he said as they made their way back down the corridor to the Gryffindor Common Room, "but not them."

"Fear brings out the worst in people," Sherlock said. "Makes people think and so things they wouldn't necessarily do normally."

John opened his mouth to reply, when an ear-splitting yell sounded from an upper level of the castle: "ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!"

"That's Peeves," John said in alarm.

"Third floor," Sherlock deduced, and the two of them went running off down the passage towards the nearest staircase. By the time they arrived on the scene, there was already a sizeable crowd around the two stationary victims – Justin Finch-Fletchley and (to John's amazement) Nearly-Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. He was floating horizontal to the floor, his normally pearly white appearance changed to smoky black. It wasn't a pleasant sight.

"Oh my God," John gasped. Sherlock was staring, wide-eyed, transfixed by the sight. John could almost see the cogs whirring inside his head and he fought to find an explanation for this new phenomenon.

"Caught in the act!" he heard Macmillan's voice yell, pointing a shaking finger at Harry, who was standing some feet away from Justin and Nick.

"That will do, Macmillan!" Professor McGonagall snapped, silencing the outraged Hufflepuff.

"What d'you reckon?" John asked Sherlock as Macmillan began wafting Nick off to the Hospital Wing with a fan procured by McGonagall, in the wake of the teachers carrying Justin.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. His teeth were gritted, which John knew to be a sign that he couldn't come up with any kind of deduction or solution as to what was happened. This always frustrated him to no end.

"What sort of thing could do that to a ghost?" he wondered aloud as they made their way slowly back to Gryffindor tower, while a flabbergasted Harry was marched off by Professor McGonagall, no doubt to see the Headmaster.

"You don't think Dumbledore thinks it's Harry doing this too, do you?" John asked nervously.

"Of course not," Sherlock said. "He's smarter than that. But that's not important," he stopped so suddenly that John walked right into the back of him. Sherlock turned and took hold of John by the shoulders. John felt his face flush and fought to keep his expression passive in response to the taller boy's intense stare. "John. You might want to take a leaf out of Hooper's book and stay in the Common Room after dinner."

"Huh?" John blinked.

"It could be you next time," Sherlock said, marching them both off in the direction of Gryffindor tower, one hand still fixed on John's upper arm. "Don't let it."

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"Make way for the heir of Slytherin!" the Weasley twins' voices echoed down the crowded Transfiguration corridor as they walked ahead of Harry. "Seriously evil wizard coming through!"

Despite the inappropriateness of the joke, John couldn't help but laugh. He knew, from overhearing him tell Ron and Hermione in the Common Room, that Harry actually found Fred and George's humour at the idea of his being Slytherin's heir a comfort rather than an annoyance. It was the last week of term before the Christmas holidays began and, from the looks of it, the school was going to be pretty much empty. Mostly all the Muggle-born students – John and Molly included – had signed up for seats on the train back to London for the break, so it was starting to look like it would be a quiet Christmas Day at Hogwarts. Both John and Sherlock's presence was required at their respective family homes, though both had expressed an interest in staying behind at the castle one year.

"Maybe next Christmas," John said as they discussed the topic while strolling the grounds on Monday morning. Herbology had been cancelled again due to the bad weather, so naturally Sherlock had skipped History of Magic. There were other students about – throwing snowballs at each other and building clumsy snowmen. Everyone was wrapped up warmly in scarves, gloves and hats. Well, everyone except Sherlock. John knew Sherlock would rather suffer frostbite than pull a woolly hat on over his curly hair. He had, however, consented to wear the blue knitted scarf sent to him by Mrs. Hudson earlier in the month. "I could always go home for Easter instead."

"It'd be one less mouth for Walby," Sherlock said.

"Doesn't your mum make dinner?" John asked.

Sherlock laughed loudly.

"Cripes, no," he said. "I don't think Mother's cooked for herself since 1972. She and Mycroft don't normally hang around for Christmas, anyway."

John frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"Well, Mother normally retires to her room with a sherry and Walby brings her up a tray, and Mycroft doesn't consider Christmas Day a worthy use of his time, so he goes out. Normally it's just me and Walby if Mrs. Hudson goes to her sister's, which I think she is this year."

"Just you. . . and your house-elf?"

"Mm-hmm," Sherlock nodded. "It's no big deal. It's just Christmas."

Just Christmas. The thought of Sherlock eating his Christmas dinner with no-one but a wizened house-elf for company – pulling a solitary cracker, if there were crackers at all – almost caused John to burst into hysterical sobs. That lunchtime, he made a quick visit to the Owlery armed with a letter addressed to his parents.

It wasn't until Wednesday that the reply came. John and Sherlock were relaxing by the Gryffindor fire when John caught sight of a barn owl tapping at the window, envelope in beak. He tore the letter open – rewarding Hector with a few crusts of the bread they'd been toasting – and broke out in a wide smile.

"Sherlock?" he said, sitting back down on the pouf he'd just vacated.

"Yeah?" Sherlock was reading a very large Library book and didn't look up.

"How'd you like to spend Christmas at my house?"

Sherlock snapped his head up and stared at John, who suddenly felt nervous. Maybe it was presumptuous of him to think that Sherlock would want to spend the holidays in a Muggle household.

"Christmas. . . with you?" he said.

"And my family," John said. "You'd have to put up with my sister but she sulks most of the time so she might not say much and my mum fusses a bit but her cooking's really good and we play charades and go carolling and. . . yeah." He found he was feeling more awkward as he went on, and Sherlock was just staring at him, apparently struck dumb. When he did speak, however, his voice had become quiet and humble and very un-Sherlock-like.

"Thank you," he said. "That's very. . . kind of you, John."

"No, it's not," John said quickly. He wasn't used to this side of Sherlock and almost wanted to hear the sort of arrogant, snarky comment he was used to. He looked so pleased and unlike his usual cool demeanour it was causing quite a pang in John's chest. "Mum always makes too much turkey and we've got a camp-bed you can sleep on in my room."

"You mean I'd be there for the whole holiday?" Sherlock said. John's stomach swooped at the look of almost childish disbelief on his face.

"If you wanted to. . ." John said shyly. Sherlock stood up and leaned forward – John was sure for a moment he was going to hug him – before standing back and jerking his arms in a strange movement, then sitting back down again, clenching and unclenching his fists against his knees. This was a side John had never seen in his friend before – Sherlock was ecstatically happy.

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By the time the last day of term rolled round, John was fairly certain he'd broken something inside of Sherlock – short-circuited his motherboard or something. Every so often he'd break out in a manic grin and ask John for the millionth time if it was really okay for him to be invading his Christmas. John assured him it was fine, but didn't add that Sherlock would be making his Christmas rather than invading it. The only thing he was slightly worried about was Harriet. She'd taken to referring to Sherlock as John's 'boyfriend' during the previous summer, but John was clinging to the hope that their mother would have drilled it into his sister that she was to be on her best behaviour in front of their guest.

December 21st arrived, and all students returning to their homes (which was to say most of them) were gathered at Hogsmeade Station. John had only packed a single bag with the things he thought he might need over the days away from school – leaving his robes, books and other school equipment in his trunk in the dormitory. Since Sherlock's had all his overnight things to bring, he'd elected to bring his whole trunk, and he kept bending down to open it, checking he'd packed one thing or another. John didn't think he'd ever seen his friend so fidgety, even in his most intense sessions of boredom.

The scarlet engine rounded the bend and everyone gathered their belongings, ready to board. John saw Molly glancing round anxiously as the train slowed to a halt, as though the monster of Slytherin might be lurking behind a dustbin or something, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting Muggle-borns gathered there. He hitched his bag a little higher on his shoulder and helped Sherlock haul his trunk onto the train. They settled in an empty compartment and Sherlock rested his feet on the space of seat next to John, his left leg jiggling slightly in anticipation. John couldn't suppress the grin of delight at his friend's excitement. He just hoped it would play to his expectations. As the hours passed, he began to see why Sherlock didn't put much store by excessive emotions like joy or love – the former certainly did something to his common sense. When the lady with the trolley came round, he declined her offer, stating he didn't want to spoil his Christmas dinner. John waited until the witch was gone before reminding Sherlock that Christmas Day wasn't for another four days.

After they'd pulled into King's Cross, the two boys lugged their belongings from the luggage rack and stepped out on the platform. John knew his parents would be waiting for him beyond the magic barrier, so they dragged Sherlock's trunk onto a trolley and joined the line of students waiting to depart the magical platform.

"John, Sherlock, wait!"

Molly was running towards them, two sealed envelopes clasped in her hand. She handed one to each of the boys. It was a handmade Christmas card – John's had an artistically-drawn robin on the front, Sherlock's a sprig of holly.

"Thanks, Moll," John said, reaching into his bag for the card he'd (at the last minute) thought to get her. Sherlock, who'd obviously not given a moment's thought to the notion of Christmas cards, stowed his card in the pocket of his coat and, leaning forward, pecked her lightly on the cheek. If John was surprised, it was nothing to how Molly looked – John thought she might actually pass out.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said.

"Blimey, Sherlock," John said, after Molly had disappeared – still peony-faced – through the barrier. "Were you visited by three ghosts last night or something?"

"Huh?" Sherlock blinked, confused. John shook his head. While he was happy Sherlock had thought to do something nice in return for Molly, he couldn't help feeling jealous –he doubted an entire cartload of cards would give Sherlock the notion of kissing him on the cheek.

John's parents were waiting for them a short way from the barrier, beaming and waving as the two boys came into view. John saw Sherlock looking a bit nervous and gave him a nudge and an encouraging smile. It felt nice to be the cool, confident one in their friendship for once. This was foreign territory for Sherlock.

Mr. and Mrs. Watson greeted Sherlock as warmly as they welcomed their son (though John was glad his mother refrained from hugging and kissing the life out of him as well), and Mr. Watson took control of Sherlock's trolley as they headed off towards the car. Sherlock seemed to regain some of his confidence on the drive back, asking Mr. Watson various questions about the battered Ford Fiesta – where the engine was, how the gear-stick worked and suchlike – and becoming deeply engrossed with the music on the car radio, having grown up listening to the Wizarding Wireless Network.

As they pulled into the driveway of number thirty-six, Alderton Crescent, John felt a small bundle of nerves knot in his stomach. Having grown up in the lifestyle a pure-blood was no doubt accustomed to, he hoped Sherlock wouldn't think his own home too small or simple. Sherlock's ardent fascination with the TV, stereo and microwave – which John had to prevent him putting random items into throughout the rest of the evening – put these fears to rest. His mother had already set up the camp-bed beside John's own bed, and had even hung up a new stocking, royal blue for Ravenclaw, on the fireplace.

Harriet, who'd been spending the day at a friend's, arrived home at about nine. Obviously she must have known Sherlock was coming, but it didn't stop her staring at him with suspicion, like he was about to turn the coffee table into a goat or something. At ten-thirty, Mrs. Watson announced it was time for the two boys to go to bed. As they settled down beneath their respective duvets, John allowed himself a moment to enjoy the butterflies flitting around his stomach. Sherlock's pyjamas consisted of full-length, navy trousers and shirt, but it was still a thrill to think that the object of his pre-pubescent desires was going to be sleeping in the same room as he.

The days before Christmas passed quickly. Sherlock's infectious excitement had everyone striving to make sure this would be the most Christmassy Christmas ever. Even Harriet got into the swing of it, set to paper-chain and tinsel duty by Mrs. Watson, while Sherlock and John decorated the tree. John thought it would have been nice for them to have a real tree for Sherlock's First Real Christmas (which was starting to feel like some cheesy movie, with a sequel called Sherlock Saves Christmas or something like that), but for the sake of Mrs. Watson's carpet, they were making do with an artificial one. Still, once the baubles were strung and placed at random intervals on the branches (Sherlock liked to go for the as-many-as-possible-in-one-place look), and the rainbow lights were weaved in between (after much untangling and swearing from Mr. Watson, as t'was tradition) everything was starting to look very festive indeed.

It was Christmas Eve, and the four Watsons and Sherlock were walking down the street of Alderton Crescent, torches in hand, singing for all they were worth. A few family friends had come along with them, and they made for a very merry party as they tramped through the snow. Luckily, nobody seemed to notice Sherlock's lyrical differences in the songs they were singing – like God Rest Ye Merry, Hippogriffs and Hark! The Herald Merfolk Sing. It was a very festive night – the amber light from the streetlamps cast a warm glow over the white ground, and every house with fairy lights illuminating its face was twinkling merrily through the darkness.

They stopped off at a family friend's house for mulled wine and mince pies before returning home. The entrance to the garden was adorned with holly, ivy, and a tiny sprig of mistletoe. John's heart leapt when he saw it, and positively jumped right out of his mouth when he saw Sherlock glance upwards as they passed beneath it.

"Hmm, mistletoe," he said, matter-of-factly. "Isn't the tradition to kiss underneath it?"

"Umm, y-yes," John nodded, hoping Sherlock would just think it was the cold making him stammer.

"Huh," Sherlock looked down at his friend. John suddenly wished he hadn't chosen to wear such an awful bobble-hat upon leaving the house – he felt like a fool. "Well, since it's Christmas. Though I imagine alterations can be made for same-sex meetings beneath it."

John could feel something rising in his chest – a girly squeal, he feared – as Sherlock took hold of his hand and eased the glove from his trembling fingers. Then – John feeling certain he'd died somewhere between numbers twenty-four and thirty-two on the street and gone straight to heaven – he brought John's knuckles to his lips and kissed them lightly, eyes closed and his own hand perfectly still. He released John's fingers – which felt cold at the absence of his touch – and gave him the warmest smile John had ever seen bless those beautiful lips.

"Merry Christmas, John," he said.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," John replied.

As Sherlock turned to go inside the warm house, where the sound of laughter and clinking glasses could be heard, John had to wipe small traces of tears from his eyes. It was the closest he'd ever come to the kind of physical affection he craved from his best friend, and was most likely the closest he was ever going to get, but at that moment he was so blissfully happy he didn't care. Not tonight, when the street was so beautiful and Sherlock was there and smiling at him like he wished to be nowhere else on Earth. And John believed, as he smiled back at the boy he was sure he had just fallen in love with, that it was true.