Sorry I'm a little later with my update than I'd planned, but I had a house full of guests this week and cooking twice a day for 9 people ate up all my writing time! I managed to get some in today (though I was sad to see them leave!) and special thanks go to AustenLux, who wanted to know more about the girls (and had some interesting predictions about Moriarty. Hmmm...) and to Jay, who wanted there to be a mystery for John and Sherlock to solve!

Also, extra special glitter and unicorns and cookies thanks goes to BranowynIvy- editor, sister, chief conspirator- for being her usual amazing self in helping me develop this story. If you have any interest in HP stories or Boondock Saints stories, check out her stuff. It'll blow your mind!

Anyone who'd seen their fight wouldn't have thought that they would want to be anywhere near each other after that. But just the opposite happened. John and Sherlock became nearly inseparable. Between classes they could often be found talking in the corridors. On weekends and holidays, John accompanied Sherlock when he went to assist Auror Lestrade on a case. The two of them became something of a sensation at the ministry, solving more cases than any of the other aurors put together.

Somehow, they were well matched. John kept them with both feet firmly planted on the ground while Sherlock saw the bigger picture. Together they seemed...complete.

Headmaster Taffit couldn't have been more pleased by the situation. Sherlock's students and fellow professors felt the same. With John around, Sherlock was less likely to go off on a rant. He was also less likely to insult someone's whole family without even realizing it.

At first, Brogan hadn't been happy about the two teachers becoming fast friends. To her, it had spelled the end of her private lessons. And perhaps it would have, if John hadn't taken to watching after Lila. When the flying instructor found out Sherlock had been teaching a student fighting spells well beyond her year (or what should have been taught in school at all) he'd been furious. But it had been Lila who'd said that Professor Holmes was only teaching Brogan so she could defend Lila. It had taken a little more persuasion, and John had been sure to give Sherlock a lecture about creating mischief, but he'd finally give in.

So Brogan and Lila's lessons continued. It had taken Sherlock less than a month to learn the language they'd been teaching him in exchange for their lessons. It would have taken much less than that even, had the language been set up in any logical way. But it was part made up book language, part shortened English, part book and movie quote and part silent communication. All together, it was a modge podge of words and phrases that only the two of them- and now Sherlock- could understand.

Long after he'd mastered the language, he was still teaching the girls. Of course he claimed it was only so that he wouldn't have to be bothered with giving detentions to their tormentors, but John knew better. Sherlock- cold, clinical, unfeeling Sherlock- had grown to like the girls.

Brogan actually reminded Sherlock of a young, fiery version of John. She was startlingly loyal, capable of great violence in the name of protecting those she cared about (Sherlock had learned of John's possession of that particular trait on a surprisingly fascinating case involving a string of poisonings and a Night Bus driver). She was no great intellect, but somehow like John, she possessed just enough tenacity and creativity to make up for the loss.

Even with all those things, the girl might have eventually become dull to Sherlock perhaps, without the constant company of her friend. Lila was fascinating to Sherlock. He'd heard the story of her background quickly enough. Apparently her father had drowned her mother and then killed himself. Lila had been found two days later soaking wet, holding her mother's lifeless body and rocking back and forth, unable or unwilling to speak. It had happened before she'd been old enough to attend Hogwarts, but the story of her parent's grisly murder/suicide had spread through the school like wildfire. Perhaps even worse for her, students with morbidly active imaginations had taken the story one step further, speculating that perhaps Lila had killed both her parents and somehow escaped justice. That, more than any social differences or awkwardness in manners, ostracized the girl from her peers.

All except Brogan.

In the first seven seconds of knowing them, Sherlock had deduced much about their relationship. After seven days, he knew more about their future together than even they did. And after seven months, he found himself pleasantly surprised that they could somehow manage to shock him.

The night of the welcoming banquet, Sherlock had disillusioned himself and done a few investigations. Nothing of overt importance, merely trifles to satisfy his curiosity. As he's guessed, Lila and Brogan hadn't separated to their respective dormitories for the night. Less than an hour after bed, Lila had slipped from the portrait to her rooms and moved with ghost like silence down the corridor. In her white night gown, with her pale hair down around her shoulders, she did look ethereal.

A few twists and turns later and she was outside an empty space of hallway. Less than ten seconds later Brogan slipped into the corridor as well and the girls hugged. Wearing a red flannel night dress and with her copper curls escaping from a wayward braid, she looked just as bright as her companion looked pale. For a moment, some thread of errant thought ran through Sherlock's mind about them being like the sun and the moon. Drivel. He deleted it immediately.

Even before the door began to materialize, Sherlock had turned and was striding back down the hallway to his own quarters. It was obvious they were using the room of requirement for a place to sleep, safe from their peers. He could practically see them in there, settling down for the night and talking in their special language, probably falling asleep with hands only inches from touching in a subconscious need to be close to one another.

It had taken John longer to discover their sleeping arrangements, but he'd been coerced into keeping mum, surprisingly, by Sherlock. Of course his real reason was wanting to have something to hold against them, should he ever need their unquestioning cooperation, but what he'd told John was that it was much more logical that the girls spend their nights together. Less likely for their classmates to stay up into the night plotting pranks against them, more likely that the girls would get good sleep and do well in their classes the next day. But by that point in their friendship, John could see through even Sherlock's delusions about himself and could see that he was trying to do the girls a kindness.

Such human reactions from Sherlock were so rare (and his logical reasonings had actually been sound) that John let it slide. And he continued to let it slide.

When the 'accidents' started happening, he was grateful he had. Because until he and Sherlock could figure out who was behind them...both girls needed each other for protection.

It started out innocuously enough. Lila's things began to disappear. Which wasn't actually all that unusual for her. Children could be cruel and it was easy to fall back on old stand bys. First it was her school robes. The orphanage that was Lila's home in the summer months had only paid for one set of robes for her, so she was relegated to wearing Brogan's spare set. They were considerably nicer than her own (which were second hand) but had the disadvantage of being much too long for her. And Lila refused to let Brogan try and charm them to fit her, as that had before resulted in the complete ruin of a set of robes. Despite Brogan's insistence that her parents could certainly afford more, Lila wouldn't be budged. She did not resent her friend's wealth, but neither did she wish to abuse it.

Then it was her shoes. One day, every single pair of Lila's shoes disappeared into thin air. Nary a slipper had been left behind. The solution to this had been easier, as the girls' feet were the same size, but the other students made sure to point out the change. Both girls were taunted. Lila for having to wear her rich friend's shoes, and Brogan for being so desperate for friends that she'd give her shoes to the 'crazy girl.'

These taunts were not met with docile reactions on Brogan's part.

John had deflected the worst of Brogan's punishment for lighting other student's robes on fire (explaining to Taffit that the flames were spelled and would burn clothing or books but not skin- he neglected to mention that they would have burned hair, as well) and Sherlock momentarily turned his deductive skills to locating the lost items.

By the end of the night, he'd found every last trainer and had them wrapped up in her threadbare school robes and shrunk down into his back pocket. It was just after lights out, and Sherlock had planned to leave the parcel with Lila in the room of requirement while she waited for Brogan to finish detention.

He rolled his eyes as he heard voices around the next corner. He really found it a waste of time to have to give out detentions. It punished him just as much as the students, taking time away from his experiments, distracting him from more interesting cases. He slowed down, hoping the offenders would take their mischief to another part of the castle and save him the hassle. Alas, it wasn't to be. He sighed and mentally resolved to make their detentions very unpleasant indeed...

"Murdering little freaks like you need to be marked, so the whole world can see what you really are. I think Killer Freak would go well on your forehead. Maybe on one of your cheeks." The speaker was a sixth year boy who proceeded to draw a short blade from inside his robes. "Hold her still," he ordered the ones holding Lila's arms. At the sight of the blade, a single tear snaked down her face and Sherlock could see true panic there. Not just at what they planned, but echoes of horrors past.

Time slowed to a crawl from the first moment he'd taken in the sight of the boys surrounding Lila. His brain could process several dozen things all at once, all in fractions of seconds. One part of his mind was instantly calculating if he would be close enough to them to physically intervene before they started cutting her or if he would need to use a spell to rescue the girl. Another part of his mind was wondering just how it had come to this- so far from mere school yard taunting- and how far they intended to take it. Some lower part that he usually didn't utilize unless he was alone recognized the pang he'd felt for her when they called her 'freak.' It was an insult that had been slung at him on more than one occasion. In fact, it had happened so often that he's started responding to it with a kind of sick glee. Only in the basest, most vulnerable part of himself could he admit that it always stung. That his haughty delight at the insult was actually his armour against it's burn. Hearing the ugly word used on Lila...it caused a reaction he wasn't sure he wanted to examine too closely. It was almost as if he cared. As if he could empathize with the girl. Which of course wasn't possible. Sociopaths, by definition, didn't have empathy. Maybe he'd just been spending too much time with John lately...

Of course, his calculations had been correct. He reached the boy with the knife with a good four point two seconds to spare before the blade hit Lila's skin. Four pairs of eyes went to him instantly, all wide with panic.

"Well, now...what have we here?" he drawled.

"It's an outrage!" John exploded. "Utter rubbish! I have half a mind to file a complaint with the school's board of directors."

"Taffit is only doing his job, John. Your outrage, while understandable, is pointless."

"They drew a knife on her! They were going to-" he stopped, fists clenched in rage and unable to finish the sentence.

"I am aware of what happened, as I was actually there and was the one who relayed the events to you," Sherlock pointed out mildly. John only glared at him.

"Why aren't you more outraged about this? How can you just sit there calmly while those boys are getting off with barely a slap on the wrist?"

"I don't waste my mental powers on useless pursuits. There isn't anything to be done, hence it no longer matters."

"It bloody well matters to me! And it should matter to you. It would, if you weren't such a sodding machine. You've been tutoring those girls the whole year! You know them better than any other student, and somehow you can't be bothered to care that one of them was nearly mutilated right under your nose!" John had stormed over to where Sherlock was sitting and was nearly shaking with desire to lay the other man out. Like a shot, Sherlock stood and gripped the front of John's jumper, yanking him forward until they were nearly nose to nose, with Sherlock staring down at John. There was something akin to rage in his eyes.

"Care, doctor?" he hissed. "Is this what your 'care' amounts to? Raving about injustice, making idle threats that will do nothing to change the situation? If this is what caring for those girls is, then you can keep it. I'd rather spend my time doing something that can actually be of use, like figuring out who is behind these attacks and stopping them. My time is better served getting results, John." Sherlock released John and turned away, disgusted. With himself for allowing the rare display of physical emotion, and with John for failing to see through the cold exterior to the man within. Usually John was the only person in the world who could see inside him, could tell that what others saw as cruelty or coldness was efficiency and practicality. It bothered him more than he thought it would for John not to see it this time.

The sigh behind him was long and drawn out. John dropped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and turned him back.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. You're right, me ranting about it isn't going to get anything more done. If Taffit's hands are tied because those boys 'didn't actually do anything,' then we should be looking for another option. I'm just worked up about it is all."

"Apology accepted, John. Sometimes being a machine has it's advantages. One of those being the ability to see through a situation to it's heart." John winced at Sherlock's repeat of his insult, but he knew another apology would be rejected as redundant.

"Right then, what's at the heart of this situation? And what did you mean by 'attacks?' There have been others?"

They resumed their seats and Sherlock let a small, knowing smile curl his lips -the sting of John's lack of faith pushed aside- and began to explain.

"Two weeks ago, I found the lock to the cage of wild Cockatrices in my class room had been tampered with. Had I not observed the signs and corrected the problem, the bulk of them would have broken free during my planning session and attempted to overwhelm me."

"Cockatrices?! A dozen of them can take down an armed wizard! I'm not even going to mention how stupid you are to keep a group of them anywhere near your classroom."

"I'd appreciate that, for expediency sake," Sherlock agreed with a smile.

"Then how did you realize the lock had been tampered with?"

"Easily, John. I observed. I deduced. The signs were clear for anyone with eyes to see. Well, anyone with eyes and half a brain," he amended. John rolled his eyes. "The door to my classroom had been opened after I last closed it. Not damning on it's own, of course, but suspicious. Then I saw that the cover cage was off center, as if it had been replaced hastily. Not my style at all, so I investigated further. I won't bore you with the specifics of what I noticed on the lock itself that told me it had been tampered with and would fail, but suffice it to say, I did."

"And did you deduce who did it?"

Sherlock scowled. "Not Yet. And before you get too smug about that, let me remind you that I was distracted by the girl who'd been somehow transported from her dorm to just outside the Forbidden Forest, in convenient reach of the Womping Willow. As appiration is impossible on school grounds to all but a select few, that couldn't have been the cause. When questioned, the student claimed not to have been practicing magic of any kind at the time, ruling out a spell gone awry. Which leaves only a few possibilities. Either the girl was lying about what she was doing when it happened-"

"There's no way Susan was lying. I saw her face, Sherlock. She was terrified."

"Then unless the school has decided to purge itself of students, the only option left is a purposeful trap laid for her."

"You mean you think someone meant to send her out there? She could have been killed!"

"Precisely."

"Who would do such a thing?"

"That's exactly what I plan to find out. The game, my dear doctor Watson, is on." The sly smile was back. John wanted to box the man's ears. This wasn't a game. Student's lives were at stake here. But he knew that underneath that icy exterior, Sherlock did care, no matter what he claimed. He lived for the intrigue, the puzzle, the high of the chase, but he did care- whether he liked it or not. Remorse for what he'd said earlier came back and tapped him on the shoulder.

"I didn't mean what I said before, you know. You're not a machine, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't look up. "If that's true, you're the only one who thinks so."

"Yeah, well I don't know that anyone else's opinion matters."

And he was right. John's opinion was the only one that mattered to Sherlock.

What do you think, my lovelies? What's next?