John instinctively moved between Smith and the other two. The man gave every indication of being less-than-balanced at the moment, from the wide-eyed, unblinking stare he was giving them to the fact that the robe over his suit was actually inside out.
"Have you discovered where its nest is on the grounds?" Sherlock asked.
John blinked and turned to face him, hoping his expression conveyed his confusion.
"That's where he's been all day. Don't be dense," Sherlock said impatiently. "If the dirt on his instep wasn't proof enough, ask yourself where else he could have been that they wouldn't have had him cooped up in the hospital wing trying to cure all those patients."
"But, Sherlock –" he wished his mind would stop hiding the words he was reaching. "The claw marks."
"They didn't lead to this window," Sherlock said, shrugging. "I assumed you'd noticed when you came up."
John shook his head rather hopelessly. "So he's not –" he turned back to Smith. "You're not the alien?"
"Well," Smith said, cocking his head slightly. "Technically, yes, but if you're asking if I'm the one who has been attacking elves and students, then no."
"Why should we believe you?" John asked.
"Because –" Smith scratched his head. "Because the claw marks didn't come here. Whatever that means."
"But that was only one –"
"It invalidates our theory," Sherlock interrupted. "Remember – theories to suit facts, not the other way around. No claw marks, Mycroft's insistence that there arerecords of this fellow, and obviously not as a voracious carnivore, not to mention the fact that this creature is clearly more adept at concealment than our Professor Smith –"
"Oi!" Smith said, affronted.
"Please. You're blatantly not a wizard, with an alias so ubiquitous and a wardrobe so eccentric you should be at a casting call for some Muggle science fiction show. I was willing to overlook all that while I thought you were merely a beast unable to control his appetite, but these poisonings aren't for food. The creature wants something else, making it sentient and clever, meaning its concealment tactics in any form would be equally clever. Therefore, we can go forward on the hypothesis that you are not the monster attacking the school."
"That's bloody magnificent," Smith said, staring at Sherlock as if he were a new species to be examined. "And only 15? Wonder what you'll be when you're fully grown. Of course, you did just manage to insult me at least twice while proving my innocence, but part and parcel, I suppose. I was out in the grounds, though in my defense I stopped by the hospital wing around dawn to take a lok at the poison-venom-stuff. I'm not exactly certain what it is. Though it would clear everything right up, but it didn't. I don't suppose you three know much about alien subspecies?"
John and Lindsay immediately shook their heads. Sherlock seemed to force himself to do the same.
"Either the TARDIS is malfunctioning or we're dealing with something I've never encountered before. Everything pointed to Zhacan, too…"
"Zhacan?" Sherlock repeated.
"Fairly peaceful race over all, but with a taste for exotic food. It explains the centaurs and the thestrals and the house elves and the reason no humans were harmed up until now. They don't like human. Too gamey."
John found himself wishing a tapestry or an inkwell would intervene to interpret this information for him. "But it isn't a Zhac- thing."
"Can't tell. The TARDIS is having trouble searching our archives. The sonic screwdriver is on the fritz, too. Probably because of the magic in the air. She doesn't care for it much. She's a scientist at heart."
"Who is?" Lindsay asked.
Smith grinned. "The TARDIS. My spaceship." He patted the doorframe of the blue box with almost paternal pride. "Best to be had by any species in this galaxy or any."
"A Muggle police call box?" Sherlock said skeptically. "Bit cramped, it seems to me."
"Let me show you."
He stepped aside with a flourish and beckoned them inside. Lindsay was through the doorway before John had collected himself enough to stop her. Sherlock swept Smith with one more appraising glance and nodded John through the door. With a hesitation only long enough to see that Sherlock intended to follow, John stepped through.
Whatever he'd been expecting to find, this certainly wasn't it. The room was easily larger than the Transfiguration study, full of warm and odd-coloured light, with metallic walls and some sort of console in the center. Lindsay was standing stock still, eyes as big as saucers, but with a grin spreading across her fact that threatened to explode off it.
"Breathe, Lovejoy," John commented as Sherlock stepped through behind him and Smith followed.
"It's brilliant! Absolutely brilliant," she said, dashing several feet forward. "A real spaceship at Hogwarts – and it looks like a phone box? Great Scot, that's amazing!"
"Now she knows how to appreciate the TARDIS," Smith said, shoving his hands in his pockets to watch Lindsay's exploration. "You two are inexplicably unimpressed."
"It's –well, it's impressive," John said, unfolding his arms and taking a few steps further in. "A bit out of the everyday."
Smith rolled his eyes and mimicked him. "'A bit out of the everyday – that's the understatement of the year. At least, I think so. As far as I remember for 1998. When have you seen anything like it? This is Gallifreyan technology at its peak. Its bigger on the inside!"
"It's dimensionally transcendent," Sherlock said in a bored voice. "It exists on two planes. The entry, in the dimension we live in and experience it, is compact and therefore easily concealable and maneuverable. The interior is on a separate plane, allowing for almost unlimited space. It's the same basic theory as an undetectable extension charm, except I imagine your technology aids with transport through space rather than merely increasing capacity."
"And time," Smith said, almost defensively. "Space and time."
"Time?" Lindsay echoed from the console. "It's a time machine, too?"
"Wizards have that ability, too," Sherlock said airily. "Its use is discouraged because it can have rather disastrous consequences."
"That's because you're not time lords," Smith said.
"Time lords?" Sherlock repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Bit of a presumptuous title, don't you think?"
"It's not my title, it's my race." Smith looked at him almost sternly. "My title is 'Doctor,' and as long as it's just us four, you can call me that."
"Like a medical doctor?" John asked.
"Not exactly," the Doctor said, shrugging. "But my knowledge of alien species is unparalleled in this universe, and I can't seem to identify this."
He took the steps up to the console three at a time and pulled the screen around to face them. The tangle of circles and dots was familiar, but no more comprehensible than it ever had been. Sherlock vaulted the handrail to stand beside the Doctor. John considered protesting that he couldn't possibly read it, no matter how close he was, but decided against it. For all he knew, Sherlock could have read up on Circular Alien Languages of the Galaxy last night and now could read it. For his own part, he chose to take the steps one at a time and arrived just as Lindsay bounded past from the other side of the console.
"See? Everything fits with the Zhacan, but their stinger only has a mild paralytic. It just makes a human's limbs heavy, doesn't even completely stop them," the Doctor was saying. "This poison – the composition seems similar, but it must have mutated."
"Are there any species you know of with a venom that doesn't kill?" Sherlock asked. "All six of the victims are still alive, which makes it more and more apparent that killing them wasn't the objective."
The Doctor tapped around the screen several times, and the circles and dots dissolved into a swirling mass. John sighed and leaned back against the console, feeling the tiredness settle on his shoulders again. He was rewarded with a squawk from the machine behind him. He jolted upright and turned around, scrabbling for whatever he'd bumped out of place. He pulled a knob back slightly, and was greeted by a rusty sounding grinding sound.
"You could keep it down, you know," he muttered, putting the knob back in its original position.
"I can get that for you, John," the Doctor said, stepping around Sherlock to pull a lever about a half inch down. "She can be a bit cantankerous about strangers touching her."
"Um… Doctor, is there a way to see this in – English?" Lindsay said hesitantly, eyes still on the swirling monitor. "I realize this is your language, but we can't read it."
"Oh! Right you are." The Doctor turned a knob on the console and the display reformed into letters.
At the top was Zhacan, with a list of attributes and physical features. Just under it was Vhrexing, and then Blagian. John, standing well away from any surface that might protest his presence, squinted at the screen. They all had the climbing ability and claw type of the creature at Hogwarts. Zhacan was the only one with the chameleon-like ability. But none of them had a venom stronger than the Zhacan.
"I can't think of a species that causes that level of pain in a human without killing them," the Doctor said.
"Unless you count humans," John said, his mind flashing to the Death Eaters' vicious attacks, and Neville's face when the older boy had confided in him about his parents.
Both Lindsay and the Doctor looked at him with something akin to pained understanding. Sherlock was functionally ignoring him, eyes still glued to the screen.
"Here," he said, tapping at an entry. "The Waichux has venom meant to incapacitate its victims so it can eat them while they're still alive."
"Charming," John muttered.
"Yes, but the Waichux never travel outside of their system. And they're basically giant transparent slug-creatures, so I don't think the Zhacan would have crossed with them."
John repressed a shudder and decided to risk letting the handrail take his weight. It was going to be a long night.
Three hours later, they were no closer to having an exact match, and the Doctor and Sherlock looked as if they'd been in a boxing match. Sherlock's tie hung askew from his neck and he'd tossed his outer robe in favor of rolled shirt-sleeves. The Doctor's hair was now in some sort of fantastical arrangement that reminded John of the stalagmites he'd seen in a cave on holiday once. Lindsay had found a perch in the branch of one of the oddly angular columns and was chiming in with suggestions when the other two stopped for breath. John had stopped contributing over an hour previous and contented himself with pacing halfway around the console and back again, keeping himself awake and still seemingly engaged. It occurred to him now that they were being exceptionally quiet. He rounded the turn once more and found all three rather wilted.
"Listen," he said, his voice raspy with weariness. "Can't we just go out at first light and look for the blasted thing?"
"I spent the whole day out there today and only managed to get myself royally lost," the Doctor said.
"That's because you don't know the forest."
At that, Lindsay sat up straight, eyes gleaming. John nodded in answer.
"John and I do," she said. "We went out there regularly last year. We could help you search."
The Doctor tilted his chin up to think. "Aren't students banned from the forest?"
John gave a laugh. "Never stopped us before."
"Well, it can't be at first light. I've got a meeting with Headmistress McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey at dawn. And McGonagall was quite insistent today – classes are to continue as usual, we are to be alert and keep our students safe, but not disrupt their schedules more than absolutely necessary," the Doctor said reluctantly. "So, let's see… my first break of any appreciable length on Monday is just after your section of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Shall we meet in the courtyard then?"
As much as John wanted to head straight to bed and sleep off the oddity of pleasantly wishing Professor Smith – the Doctor – a good night, he turned instead to the hospital wing, Sherlock and Lindsay following along. Madam Pomfrey was dozing beside Dennis Creevey's bed, but there were two more patients than there had been when they'd left. The knot in John stomach clenched.
Madam Pomfrey awoke as her wand vibrated on the bedside table. "Oh! John, you should be in bed."
He smiled. "I thought you'd need some help changing the dressings once more."
She didn't waste energy arguing. Sherlock went to check the potions Victor had left to mature, and the other three reapplied the paste to the wounds, quieted those whose potions had worn off and administered more. If only he wasn't so dog-tired, it would have felt nearly homey.
"Any word from St. Mungo's?" he asked as he finished wrapping Robert's bandage.
"They said they'll try to have someone here by 10, but they're trying to find healers who haven't been exposed to the spattergroit, because the last thing this school needs is an epidemic on top of everything." Madam Pomfrey sounded slightly bitter. "I'm in no position to argue with them."
John put a hand on her shoulder. "Half of this school would be dead but for you. Just you mind that."
She gave a huffing breath that might have been a laugh and regained a semblance of her usual snap. "And speaking of half-dead, I want the three of you in bed in the next 10 minutes or you'll all wind up in here yourselves. I'll send Peeves after you to check."
It seemed his head had barely touched the pillow when the commotion of the dormitories emptying for the morning woke him. John stumbled out of his room and made it to the Great Hall in time to grab a slice of toast before Transfiguration, where he embarrassed himself quite handily by forgetting the name of every magical theorist they were to have looked up over the weekend. Lindsay saved him from one last humiliation by actually interrupting Professor McGonagall's question to him to answer it herself. The mildly reproachful look McGonagall sent her told John she knew full well why Lindsay had done it. That fact only served to make him feel slightly worse.
His only recollection of Defense Against the Dark Arts was sitting down several minutes before class began and leaning over to put his book bag down. The next moment he was aware, Sherlock was sitting beside him, feet up on the desk, and the rest of the class was filing up to put their essays on the desk and leave.
John swore. "You mean I slept through the whole class."
"Quietly, if it makes you feel any better," Sherlock said, shrugging. "No snoring loud enough to disrupt anything. And you didn't miss much."
John rifled through his bag. "Our essay. We never finished our –"
Sherlock pulled a parchment from inside his robe. "I finished it during History of Magic this morning. Wasn't much left to do."
John stared at him as the last few students trickled out and Lindsay wound around several desks to get to them. Sherlock saw the look and frowned.
"Don't be grateful, it's annoying. I knew you'd never be able to focus on the hunt if you thought you had work left undone. You're too conscientious a student for that. So I removed the obstacle."
The Doctor walked up and took the parchment from him. "I look forward to reading this soon. But for now, who's up for a stroll in the woods?"