Sherlock let John have the honor of coming up with the detentions for the boys who'd attacked Lila. Oh, and were they creative. If he didn't have such a damnably high moral code, Sherlock thought John would have made a marvelous sadist. In less than a week, all three boys were bitterly regretting their decision...and there was still two months of detentions left.
Perhaps because of his detention ideas, John was the next to be targeted by an attack. Not a direct one, of course. Oh no, that would have been too obvious, too forward. And it never would have worked. John had seen battle- a frontal attack on a man like him would likely result in the assailant taking up permanent residence in St Mungos.
He was out on the quidditch field before his first class of the day. Though he hadn't needed a cane since his fight with Sherlock, he still kept his broom shrunk down to the size of a wand and tucked into his sleeve. At first it had been because he didn't entirely trust that he wouldn't suddenly need the cane again. Later, it was because it was convenient to have his broom handy. With all the crazy situations Sherlock got him into, having an easy exit was a must.
John pulled his shrunk broom from his sleeve and righted it to it's normal size. The familiar wooden handle was warm and smooth. It felt good in his hand. Right. On the ground, he felt like he was bumbling along half the time (and spending his days with a certifiable genius with the grace of a swan didn't help that thinking any) but in the air, on a broom... Then he was untouchable. It was like something inside him suddenly righted itself and he had perfect equilibrium. The only other time he ever felt so at peace was, ironically, when Sherlock was dragging him into danger and intrigue.
He mounted the broom and kicked off, planning on taking a few warm up laps around the field before students began to arrive. The cool morning air rushed by his face briskly. Invigorated, he sped up, leaning into the curves and letting his momentum send the broom shooting forward. When he spotted the first of his students start to assemble on the field, he leaned back to slow the broom.
Nothing happened.
He pulled back more sharply, gripping the handle and pushing down with his heels against the tail. Still nothing. The broom began to pick up speed, faster and faster. It came to the next curve and John couldn't get it to turn. It didn't react at all to his movements. He shot forward, off the quidditch pitch and over the forbidden forest. Absolute calm settled over John. He did not panic, his hands did not tremble. Keeping strong fingers of one hand curled tightly around the broom handle, he freed his other hand and reached for his wand. It didn't react to a spell lifting charm. No outside forces were controlling it, nor were there any jinxes on the broom. He cast a diagnostic spell next, and tried to read it as the broom shuddered, then pitched forward top over tail over and over.
The whole thing was disintegrating from the inside out. The slowing mechanism had gone first, then the steering. Auto balance had stopped and soon the whole broom would drop from the sky. Just as he thought it, the broom stalled, then plummeted to the earth.
The trees rose up to meet him with startling speed, their usually peaceful looking tops suddenly becoming twiggy death traps. John rolled so he was on his back, tucked the broom against his chest and cast three spells in quick succession. The first slowed his descent, the second propelled him forward- out from over the forest- and the third stopped his broom from disintegrating any further. He barely cleared the trees when he lost the rest of his altitude and went to the ground. Because the fall had been slowed, he was able to flip until he landed upright, rolling with the impact and coming to his feet almost instantly.
Across the field on the quidditch field, several of his students broke into applause. John looked up and realized he'd had an audience for his performance and felt heat creeping into his face. He gave a little salute and walked over to them.
Sherlock strode casually out onto the field as if he hadn't just sprinted down three flights of stairs to get there. To anyone else, it would look like he just happened to pass by. But as soon as John saw Sherlock, he spotted the other man's wild hair and slightly laboring lungs and knew that because Sherlock had seen John in trouble, he'd come running. It was ridiculously comforting. There was just something about being cared for by a person who hated everyone. It made him feel...special. Silly, but there it was. John grinned at Sherlock and made his way over to him.
"Alright then?" Sherlock asked him with deceptive casualness.
"I've been in tighter spots," John replied with a smile.
"Undoubtedly, captain." Finally, Sherlock was able to return the smile. "Perhaps you'd like to send your entourage off so we can take a look at your broom?"
John realized the students were staring at them- some with interest, others with outright curiosity. He turned back to them and waved his hand. "Class is canceled this morning. Return either to the Great Hall or your dormitories until next class." The edict was met with a few groans, a few cheers, and two lingering stares. John just stared back at them, waiting for everyone to disperse. When the last students wandered off, he turned back to Sherlock. "Right then. What'd you reckon is wrong with it?"
Sherlock took the broom carefully from John and ran his own diagnostic on it.
"It just started coming apart at the seams. Brakes, steering, altitude, all dropped out. I already checked it for malicious spells. There weren't any. And no one was hexing it from the ground, either."
"No. This was tampered with before you got on it. A spell that had already done it's work by the time you started flying, leaving almost no trace."
"So there's no way to tell what it was or where it came from?"
Sherlock gave John an sly smile. "I said almost."
They went over the broom for nearly an hour before gathering enough information on what happened to be able to deduce the spell used and how to reverse the effects. Sherlock thought the latter to be a waste of time ('why not simply buy a new one? It would be infinitely easier.') but John was insistent ('because it's my broom, that's why. I don't want a new one, I want this one.') and eventually Sherlock acquiesced with an indulgent shake of his head ('sentiment, doctor,') and a smile.
"What I'd like to know, is how they got close enough to the broom to cast the spell to begin with. From what I've seen, you keep it on your person at all times unless you're sleeping. And even then, it's never far. Unless you were so foolish as to not ward your doors at night, I fail to see..." Sherlock's sharp eyes noticed his companion's quick grimace. "No. John, tell me you don't. Please tell me that I haven't been running around with someone dimwitted enough not to even ward their doors at night."
"Hogwarts is the safest place on the continent! What would I need to ward my doors for?"
"Perhaps to keep murderous little ingrates from hexing your broom?" One raven brow rose in challenge.
"Well hell, how was I supposed to know that one of my own students would try to knock me off?"
"Always assume everyone is trying to knock you off, John. You'll live longer."
"Blimey, is that what you call living? No, I think I'll keep on living my way, thank you very much. I already spend half my time thinking someone is going to try to off me. I don't need to spend the rest of it like that too. Besides, if someone is going to break in and attempt to kill me, I don't want to hide behind wards. I want to face them head on. If I'm going to go out, I'll do it fighting."
"Such a Gryffindor," Sherlock accused with a shake of his head. "Besides, your extraordinary bravery- no don't take that as a compliment!- did you absolutely no good in this case. Not all attacks are as forward as you lionhearted brood seem to think they will be. It is foolish not to take into account cunning and treachery."
"Oh shut up," John complained. "I'll ward the door from now on."
"See that you do," Sherlock commented lightly, stubbornly ignoring the relief that swept through him at John's acquiescence.
What had started out as a curiosity, a project, became a crusade for Sherlock. He'd been interested when the attack had been targeted at him. Intrigued (and though he wouldn't admit it, concerned) when it was directed at the girls. But almost from the day of their fight, Sherlock had considered John his. His partner, his only friend, his...John. The perpetrators of the attacks had made a mistake. They'd gone after the one thing in the whole world Sherlock Holmes truly cared about. They'd gotten a ruthless, genius, sociopath to focus the whole of his considerable power on finding and punishing them.
No one fucked with his John and got away with it.
After that, any incident that was remotely suspicious came under Sherlock's scrutiny. He studied the student body, the staff, the intermingling of both, with eagle eyes. He collected data obsessively, filing it away in his mind to be called up later and compared to other pieces of the puzzle. And despite the seemingly random bits of information, the lack of pattern, an outline began to form in Sherlock's mind...
"Class is dismissed," Professor Moriarty called jovially. He smiled at his students, easy charm emanating off him in waves. "Brogan, if I could have a word with you?" Lila looked over at Brogan, unsure if she should wait or not. "Just you, Brogan. Won't take but a minute." The smile widened.
"I'll meet you in next class," Brogan said to Lila. The blonde nodded once, her brow furrowed in thought. Then she gathered her books and headed out of the class room.
"Alone at last, my dear," Moriarty chuckled and Brogan felt a strange stirring of unease. It was such an odd thing to say. But Moriarty had been nothing but polite and kind in his classes. Odd at times, but then again, it wasn't more odd than a professor who laid out another one in order to help him. "I've noticed that your classmates seem to alienate you a bit, my girl. It seems like quite the lonely path you're walking." He propped his chin in his palm and continued to smile up at her. Brogan shifted her feet.
"I've got Lila," she finally said.
"Ah, but one friend when you could have so many? Such a waste," he tsked. "You really ought to be the center of attention, you know. With your natural charisma, people should flock to you. Students and staff alike. Even your parents should be doting on you. They do, don't they?"
"I...uh no. I mean, it's fine. I'm happy."
"Oh my dear, this won't do. You've got such potential. It's all there, within you, waiting to get out. And I could help you with that, Brogan. You do want that, don't you? The respect of your fellow students, the attention of your parents...?"
"How?"
"Just come under my private tutelage and let Uncle Jim handle everything. There are a select few others that I mentor. You can join their ranks and let me help you become who you were always meant to be. It's all there, Brogan, waiting to come out. Everything you've ever wanted."
Brogan tried to calm her whirling mind. Professor Moriarty was right, it was everything she'd ever wanted. Soft, seductive thoughts wrapped themselves around her mind and refused to let go. She shook her head to try and clear it, try and think of anything beyond the compulsion to give in to whatever he asked for, allow herself to become malleable to his will, be shaped by him.
"I..." Resisting became harder and harder. She kept wondering why she was even trying, when it would be so easy to just say yes, allow herself to be remade in this great man's image... But what would happen to Lila if Brogan joined Moriarty's circle? The thought pulled her from the muddled wants of her mind. "Can I think about it?"
For a moment, Brogan thought she saw hatred cross her professor's face. It was gone as quickly as it had come, making her wonder if it had even been there. He stared at her for a moment with genuine curiosity. And then the genial smile was back, wide and so dulcet that Brogan felt a little bad for thinking malignant emotions ever even crossed this man's features. "Of course, my dear. Take all the time you need."
"Thanks, professor." Brogan's relief was clearly evident in her quick exhilation. She smiled back at him and turned to leave. At the door, he spoke again, making her pause.
"Oh and Brogan," he smiled winningly at her and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret with her. "Let's keep this between us, shall we? The kind of knowledge I can offer you...well there are those that wouldn't be pleased that you've been selected to receive it. People too blinded by jealousy or worry to see your true potential."
Again, the compulsion to do as he said filled her mind, blocking out all other thoughts. Her brows drew together in concentration, then a serene smile light her face. "Of course, professor."
Whew, another chapter down, and now some major plot building! Thank you all so much for the reviews I've gotten so far! Please don't forget to let me know what you want to have happen next! Aside from a basic outline (accomplished only with the help of the lovely BranowynIvy) I'm flying by the seat of my pants here, so I need to know what you want me to write about : )
And on a side note, I came up with an entirely different story that I could weave into this one (after the current mystery is solved) which involves Snape and Hermione, a spell to remove ten years of memories, and of course Sherlock and John's help to solve the case!