Chapter 8
Sherlock had a free period after lunch that day, and he decided to spend it in a room that he had found on the seventh floor. It was opposite a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to train trolls for the ballet, and what was odd about the room was that he didn't already have it included as part of his mind palace. Sherlock knew that he had been perfectly thorough in his initial survey of the castle, but he seemed to have somehow missed this room at first. He thought he had a vague memory of spending time here at some point during his first year, perhaps early in the year, some time when he had been upset. Had it been because of Mycroft? Bullies? Sherlock wasn't sure, he couldn't quite recall. But now, whenever he came here, he found a room perfect for practicing any spells he wanted to work on. He couldn't shake the feeling that the room had looked different in his vague memory of it, though.
Finally, however, he had a chance to try and produce a Patronus. Sherlock was confident that he's studied the theory well enough to be an expert. All he needed to do was cast one.
A happy memory. He needed a happy memory. Sherlock sat on the floor, his palms pressed together with his wand between them, his eyes closed as he searched his mind palace. What about when he'd solved his first case for Hagrid? There had been Bowtruckles and overgrown eggplants involved.
Sherlock focused on the memory and the pride he'd felt when he showed off his findings to Hagrid, who had been impressed beyond words. He thought the incantation to himself, Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum. Then he opened his eyes, raised his wand, and cast the spell. "Expecto Patronum," he said aloud.
Nothing happened. Sherlock stared at the empty air in front of him. Ever since his second month of school in the first year, he had always been able to produce something on his first try with a new spell. Maybe he just needed a new memory? The time he'd found a beehive in the woods near his house in Sussex and spent a day observing them. He'd certainly felt content then.
Sherlock focused again, then waved his wand, saying "Expecto Patronum!" This time, a faint wisp of silver spell issued from the end of his wand. But it was only a wisp.
He stared at it, but in less than a second it had dissolved into nothing. When he had been Sorted into Ravenclaw! Even if the initial excitement had soon faded into disappointment, that had to be a happy memory. Feeling confident again, Sherlock raised his wand for a third time. "Expecto Patronum!" Another wisp. Sherlock managed to convince himself that it was a markedly thicker wisp from the last one, but he could tell that it was nothing near a real Patronus.
When he had first heard about the unicorn case? Jumping down the hallway from Professor McGonagall's classroom? Hadn't there been a moment of elation then? "Expecto Patronum!" Another wisp. Apparently the brief elation he had felt wasn't enough to produce a Patronus.
Sherlock stayed there in the room on the seventh floor for more than another hour, trying over and over again to cast the spell. He checked his wand motion, the incantation, he sifted through memory after memory, but it seemed that he just couldn't do it. He was convinced that his theory was perfect; it had to be the memories. Feeling more frustrated than he had since the last time he had seen Mycroft, Sherlock eventually left the room. He would just have to use owls to deliver the message he wanted to send to John.
Besides Charms, John also had Transfiguration (just Gryffindors) and another Potions lesson with the Slytherins that day. Potions looked as if it were going to be a particularly nasty class this year. The new teacher, Professor Snape, was about as nice as a cauldron of congealed snake liver.
John was climbing up from the dungeons, glad to be able to finally put some distance between himself and the new Potions master, when he saw an owl zooming down the corridor. That was odd—John didn't know if he'd ever seen an owl inside the castle outside of the Great Hall. He was even more surprised when the owl flew straight up to him, dropped a small scroll at his feet, and then took off in the other direction.
John bent down to pick the scroll up off the floor, stepping out of the way of the other students passing through the hallway so that he could read it. It looked like it was a piece of parchment that had been torn off the corner of something else and then rolled up for the owl to deliver. When he'd flattened it out, he realized it was only two short sentences and a signature. The tapestry of Amy Baker. Come at once if convenient. -SH. John turned the note over, almost as if expecting more, then smiled to himself as he looked at the blank parchment of the back. He made to roll up the note again and then stuff it in his bag on his way to the tapestry, but then the second owl nearly barreled into him.
"Whoa!" said John, ducking. A few people sniggered, but the hallway was near clear. It might have been empty now, if not for the few people who seemed to be dragging their feet so they could see who was being sent owls inside the castle. Feeling self-conscious under their stares, John tried to unravel the next note quickly. He was fairly sure that he knew who it was from. Sure enough: If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH. John flipped the note over reflexively, but then paused when he saw something scrawled across the back; he hadn't really expected there to be anything more. Could be dangerous.
John smiled again, shaking his head slightly as he headed up the last stairs and into the Entrance Hall. It wasn't very far to the stretch of wall on the second floor where the Baker tapestry was hung. He passed through the rest of the students who were headed towards the Great Hall for dinner, climbing the marble staircase and up to the landing. After John had walked several meters past the corner, however, something happened that he had not been expecting.
"John Watson?" A young woman who looked old enough to have just graduated Hogwarts had stepped out in front of him from one of the classroom doors that lined the hallway. She had wavy, chestnut hair and was dressed in fitted black robes, and she didn't make eye contact with him beyond a quick glance over his face; she was busy watching a quill that was scratching slowly away at a piece of parchment suspended in the air.
John stopped, facing the woman, but didn't say anything.
"If you'd just step in here for a moment, please," the witch said, pointing to the door which she had just come out of. John stared at her, trying to decided what he should do. He didn't think he'd ever seen her at Hogwarts before, and even though her robes were black, they weren't the standard uniform for students. But she wasn't a teacher or any other staff he knew of. Was there a way that he could refuse?
Since it had been several seconds and John had yet to make a move, the witch looked up at him from her parchment for the first time. She raised her eyebrows at him and leaned her head forward, as if to ask him what he was waiting for without speaking. Feeling as if he didn't have much of a choice, John walked through the doorway and into the room.
It was a disused classroom that was unexciting in and of itself, but this didn't make John feel any less threatened when he saw that there was already a man there whom he didn't know. John felt especially uncomfortable when the witch immediately shut the door behind him, therefore closing him into the room with the unknown man.
At the sound of the door shutting, the man turned around to face John and the young Gryffindor realized that he did know him, or had at least seen him before. Both him and the umbrella he was twirling by the handle.
"You're...Mycroft Holmes," said John slowly.
"Good to see you, Mr. Watson," said the man with an unreassuring smile. John remembered the time that he met him briefly nearly two years before, outside the Great Hall on Christmas, and what Anisha had told him about people staying away from this man. If Mycroft Holmes had been Head Boy then, then he could only be nineteen or so now, but there was something about him in his immaculate, dark pinstriped robes and the way he held himself made him seem much older than nineteen.
Holmes. Was he related to Sherlock?
"Let us not waste time with pleasantries, John," said Mycroft, and John noted the switch to his first name. "I understand that you've...teamed up with Sherlock Holmes recently."
"I'm not sure I'd call it that," said John cautiously. "I only met him two days ago."
"And since then you've agreed to sneak out of school with him alone and now you're solving crimes together. If you both weren't so young, I might be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week."
John felt himself blush, feeling uneasy in this situation in yet one more new way.
"I'd like to know what he's up to," said Mycroft flatly, a shaft of dust illuminated next to him by the light from one of the classroom windows. "How would you feel periodically giving me some information?"
"What kind of information?" asked John, not entirely sure what else to say or what to make of where this was going.
"Oh, nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with. You just seem to be getting rather close to him rather quickly."
"I'm not sure I'd call it close."
"You're close, for Sherlock," said Mycroft Holmes shortly. He stared right into John's face. "You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?"
John paused before responding. Everyone kept stressing the fact that Sherlock didn't have friends. Well, neither did John, it seemed, so why was it such a big deal? "So what does that make you?" he asked.
Mycroft smiled, looking down at his umbrella for a moment. He brought it up and inspected the tip as he spoke. "The closest thing he has to a friend, actually. I'd imagine he calls me his enemy. Perhaps even arch-enemy," he said with a short laugh, bringing down the umbrella and looking at John again.
John didn't smile. "I'm not interested."
"Oh, come now, I haven't even mentioned a figure," said the man.
"You don't have to. Look somewhere else for your information. Why are you so interested?" John asked.
Mycroft Holmes answered slowly, still not taking his stern eyes off John's face. "Let's just say that I worry about him...constantly. But I would, for various reasons, prefer that my concern go unmentioned to Sherlock...we have what you might call a difficult relationship," he said delicately.
"Are you his brother?" asked John.
"Come now, John. Why would I want to tell you anything when you've given me so little that I didn't already know?"
John stared back at him. Then he turned, meaning to try to open the closed door from the inside and hoping that the witch hadn't locked him in.
"I know that your sister thinks you have trust issues," said Mycroft, and John froze. How had he learned that? Was he somehow in contact with Harry? "Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft's voice was probing and slow, and John could practically feel his eyes boring into his back.
John didn't answer. After several moments, he started towards the door again. He had closed his hand around the doorknob when Mycroft spoke again.
"Be careful who you attach yourself to, Mr. Watson. Some people may pass through this school and only see the students passing by under brightly lit torches and suits of armor, the magic as happy and inviting as one of the castle's feasts. But if you walk through it with Sherlock Holmes, you begin to see it differently. You'd best make sure you're ready to see it that way, Mr. Watson."
John turned the doorknob and felt it move under his hand easily. He opened the door and stepped out again. The witch with the wavy chestnut hair glanced up again at him as he quickly shut the door behind him, but her eyes were just as quickly glued to her parchment again and she didn't say anything to John as he walked away rapidly down the hall, determined to meet Sherlock at the tapestry without running into anyone else unwelcome.
Sherlock had been waiting by the tapestry for several minutes before John showed up. Rather than let himself become irritated with having to wait, he decided to let his mind wander, and his thoughts were soon buried in unicorn social habits as he combed through what he knew about them. Eventually, however, he saw John round the corner and come down the hall towards him quickly.
"Ah, John," he said, once the other boy had reached him. "Excellent. Come on, then, we're going to the fourth floor."
"I met a friend of yours on the way," said John, sounding irritated. Sherlock disregarded his tone as unimportant, but had to suppress his surprise at what John had just said.
"Friend?" he asked, frowning. He didn't have friends. Everyone else knew it, but he'd be the first to say it.
"He said you may call him an enemy," said John.
"Oh. Which one?" asked Sherlock mildly, his face relaxing again.
"Mycroft Holmes. Is he related to you?"
Sherlock ground his teeth together, but didn't show anything else outwardly as anger welled up in his chest. What was Mycroft doing inside Hogwarts...he always tried to stick his neck into places that were quite fine without it. "Hmm," he grunted in response to John. "Older brother. We don't talk."
"Oh," said John. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Very eloquent, this one.
"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" asked Sherlock.
"Er, yes, actually," said John, looking at Sherlock in surprise.
"Did you take it?" asked Sherlock, mildly interested. A few months ago, there had been a time when he had suspected Mycroft of going to Lestrade with the same offer. Sherlock was almost certain that it had happened, and that Lestrade had refused, even though he'd never said anything about it to Sherlock.
"No, of course not!" answered John, sounding shocked.
"Aw, think it through next time, won't you?" said Sherlock. "We could have split the fee."
John snorted, but Sherlock saw that he was smiling at him. This was an entirely new experience, for certain. Did John find him funny? Interesting. He wasn't really trying to be. Well, maybe he was, even he had to admit to himself that he liked to show off in whatever way he could.
"Why are we going to the fourth floor?" asked John. "I thought you said we were going into Hogsmeade."
"Yes, of course we are, but we have to take a way out that isn't the front door," Sherlock answered. "We'd never make it in and out that way without being seen. There's a secret passageway that takes you out of the castle and into the village behind a large mirror on the fourth floor, so we're going there."
"How do you know about it?" asked John, sounded impressed again. Sherlock smiled to himself. He was thoroughly enjoying this attention.
"I mapped the whole school and all its passageways out inside my head within my first two months here at school," he said casually. "I know where everything is, I could tell you another seven ways to get out of Hogwarts and into Hogsmeade. Filch already knows about two of them, though, maybe three."
"Wow," said John. "How did you learn it all so fast? I've been here just as long as you have, and I don't think I've even been to all the hallways in the school."
"It's like that for most of you other people," said Sherlock dismissively. "I just pay attention, and take note of the things that are useful. Where things are in the castle, and what even is in the castle, are important."
It didn't take long for them to reach the fourth floor, but it took long enough for Sherlock to almost forget John was there. He was so used to going about things such as this alone that he had completely tuned John out of his senses within a few minutes. When they reached the large mirror over the passageway on the fourth floor, Sherlock started muttering softly and tapping its silver frame with his wand.
"What are you doing?" asked John. Sherlock whipped around his head, saw John, and then was brought back to the reality that there was someone else with him. Oh. Right.
The mirror swung open slowly, not unlike the portrait of the Fat Lady in front of the Gryffindor common room entrance, and Sherlock pointed at the passageway that had just been revealed in answer. It was a large cavern, big enough to hold more than a dozen people comfortably, and connected to a tunnel that sloped gradually downward.
"Wow," breathed John, his eyes wide.
Sherlock smiled, looking at him sideways. Then he jumped ahead and beckoned John to follow him. "C'mon then, let's go! Before someone shows up and catches us."
John smiled, and with one brief glance back behind him, started forward after Sherlock, who was already several paces ahead. Once John was completely inside, Sherlock flicked his wand over his shoulder casually and the mirror swung shut behind them again. He lit his wand to illuminate their way and then led John down the uneven dirt floor.
"Lumos," Sherlock heard John say behind him, and then they had the light of both of their wands. Sherlock didn't feel any need to engage John in conversation as they walked, and eventually they made it to the end of the tunnel. The tunnel simply stopped, but there were footholds carved out in the wall in front of them, leading up. The ceiling above them was carved out and made a short, vertical tunnel.
Sherlock turned to face his companion. "We're under Hogsmeade right now, this will come out along the outskirts of the town near where some of the houses are. Then we can walk to the Three Broomsticks and wait there to watch for the unicorns."
"Okay," Sherlock heard John say from behind him—he had already turned to climb up. After a few steps, Sherlock reached up and lifted the large log that was rolled over the top of the entrance to conceal it, just enough to push it to the side so that he and John could climb out.
He came out between a small plot of trees that was behind the picket fence marking in one of the houses' backyards and then waited for John with his hands on his hips. The other boy's blonde head poked out of the exit, looking around curiously.
"Come on then," said Sherlock impatiently.
"I'm coming!" said John, hoisting the rest of himself out of the narrow hole. Sherlock hurried to conceal the passageway again with the log, and then he started off between the houses and onto the main road, which snaked through Hogsmeade and would take them to the Three Broomsticks.
As Sherlock walked down the street briskly, he kept looking behind himself to see that John was trailing behind rather more slowly than Sherlock would have liked. At first he was annoyed, but then he realized that John, unlike himself, had never been in Hogsmeade before. Third year was the first year that Hogwarts students were allowed to visit the village, and the first visit of the year was scheduled for Halloween and more than a month away. Realizing this didn't actually make Sherlock feel any less annoyed, though.
When they arrived at the Three Broomsticks, as soon as Sherlock pushed the door of the pub open and held it aside for John to step in past him, Madame Rosmerta looked up from the bar where she was wiping glasses and beamed at him. She immediately put down the goblet she was drying and cried "Sherlock!" to welcome him.
"Hello, Madame Rosmerta," said Sherlock, before he was swept into a very uncomfortable hug by the barmaid. She smelled strongly of cheap perfume, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose over her shoulder, making John snigger. Sherlock knew, however, that if he wanted to keep getting favors from her, he had to put up with things like this. He resented that this was the truth for so many of his interactions with other people.
"How have you been, Sherlock?" she asked him.
"Fine," said Sherlock.
"And I expect you want a quiet spot for you and your date?" she said, beaming at Sherlock and then winking at John.
"Wait—no—I'm not his date!" protested John, his eyes widening in surprise. Before anything else could be said, however, Madame Rosmerta was sweeping them both away to a back corner as Sherlock directed her to the one he wanted, right by the window where he could observe the trees behind the pub.
"Everything is on the house, for and your date, Sherlock," she said graciously, whipping out menus and handing them to both of them, with a pat on Sherlock's back. "This boy got me off a charge for poisoning the head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes," she said, smiling at John and nodding her head. "He was able to prove that the mead in question had actually been spiked by a visiting foreign minister and was meant for the head of the Department of Intoxicating Substances! He cleared my name," she said proudly.
"I cleared it a bit," said Sherlock. "You were still called in for questioning about the waiter you'd hired and who had been an accomplice. And the fact that you didn't check your own mead very carefully."
"I may have had to go to Azkaban if it weren't for him," said Madame Rosmerta impressively.
"You wouldn't have lasted a day in Azkaban," said Sherlock bluntly.
"I'm going to go get a candle for the table, it's more romantic," Madame Rosmerta said, turning her back on Sherlock pointedly and winking at John again. As soon as Sherlock heard the sound of her retreating heels, he tossed his menu onto the table and gazed out of the window, searching the trees with his eyes narrowed.
"I'm not his date!" Sherlock heard John call after Madame Rosmerta indignantly. Sherlock didn't pay much mind to this, however. It didn't surprise him that Madame Rosmerta made this assumption. He had never really expressed much of an interest in girls, simply for the reason that he had never expressed much interest in anyone. Sometimes if he met people several times due to cases they would notice this, and sometimes they jumped to the conclusion that it was because he liked boys, not girls, but was careful of showing it. Sherlock never bothered to correct them because he didn't see any reason to. In fact, he'd never actually really stopped to even think if it were a misconception to be corrected. Either way, it didn't matter to him if people thought he was gay.
"Might as well eat if you want to," he said to John. "We may be here for a while." Sherlock shifted on the banquette to get a better view out the window. Their seating was fairly far away from the nearest occupied table in the half-full pub, and it protruded out somewhat from the rest of the room in a small alcove that looked out into the trees—it would be perfect for spotting the unicorns if they passed by.
After a few moments, Madame Rosmerta returned with a small candle that she placed between the two of them and then lit with her wand. Sherlock heard John sigh slightly and glanced at him, seeing that he was staring at the candle in slight disbelief. For a moment Sherlock cringed inwardly. Really, John, was it that strange to imagine that people being gay was such a comfortable concept for some people?
Sherlock continued to rake the trees outside with his eyes, looking for a trace of the unicorn herd or anyone else in the forest. It was extremely rare for people other than Hagrid to venture into the Forbidden Forest, and Sherlock was ready to regard anyone who did with suspicion.
"Keep your eyes on the trees, John," said Sherlock, staring out fixedly at them himself. "We're looking for the herd or anything else moving in there that looks big enough to be a person."
Soon after John had received the food he ordered from Madame Rosmerta, Sherlock thought he heard him break the silence in their small alcove.
"Sorry?" said Sherlock, tearing his gaze away from the trees briefly.
"I said people don't normally call their brothers arch-enemies," said John.
"Oh, really?" asked Sherlock, disinterested.
"People don't have arch-enemies. Not in real life."
Sherlock sighed slightly on the inside. John seemed to be one of those people who required small talk. "What do people have then, in their real lives?"
"Friends," said John. Nope, thought Sherlock. Don't do friends. "Er, people they know and like...people they know and don't really like, but don't call arch-enemies, either." Sherlock rolled his eyes imperceptibly. John paused longer than he had before, but then spoke again, adding to his list. "Girlfriends, boyfriends."
"Hm, girlfriends," said Sherlock. "Not really my area," he said distractedly, looking out the window. Why bother with such a thing as a constant relationship you'd constantly be expected to pay attention to in order to maintain? Was their some sort of satisfaction involved? Judging by most of the Hogwarts students' love lives, no.
"Oh," said John. There was another long pause, and Sherlock had almost succeeded in tuning out from the conversation to keep his focus entirely on the forest when John said "Oh!" with much more inflection. "So do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."
"I know it's fine," snapped Sherlock quickly, looking at John and frowning slightly. Why wouldn't it be fine? And who was this boy to tell him whether or not it was?
"So you have a boyfriend then?" asked John. He seemed unnaturally interested in Sherlock's answers.
"No," said Sherlock just as quickly, but with a note of surprise at where the conversation had headed.
"Okay," said John. He looked at Sherlock, then went pink and stared down at his food. He pushed around the noodles on his plate, but didn't scoop any up onto his fork to eat. Sherlock stared at him analytically for several more seconds. Why had his tone changed so much within the last few sentences, and why had he suddenly turned so shy? Oh! thought Sherlock, much in the way John had said it a moment before, as he finally linked the evidence together.
It was surprisingly difficult for Sherlock to feel brave enough to get the next part out. He normally had no trouble saying whatever he wanted to anyone he wanted, but for some reason he felt uncomfortable talking to John about this directly. "John, you should know, that while I am flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for that sort of—"
"Oh, no, no, no, no!" said John quickly, dropping his fork. "No, I'm not interested in—no, well, I'm interested in you, I mean—no, er—I mean, I'm very interested in you and your, um, cases or whatever, but I wasn't asking...I wasn't asking about dating, or, er, anything like that, I just...you misunderstood," he finished feebly, staring down at his food again and turning pinker still.
"Right then," said Sherlock, nodding once and flicking his gaze around uncertainly. "Good."
"I was just saying that...," said John tentatively, "It's fine. It's all fine," he said more strongly.
"Good," said Sherlock again. Not really knowing what else to do next, he averted his eyes back out to the trees again. But wait—yes, something had been moving!
Sherlock stood up abruptly, jerking the table somewhat as he did so. "John, there, out in the woods!" he said, pointing. Had he really almost missed whatever it was because he was talking with John about dating, of all things?
"C'mon!" he said to John, immediately running out to the door of the pub and John hastily dashing after him. The two of them barged right out of the door and then turned as Sherlock led John through the narrow alley between the Three Broomsticks and the next building and then into the trees. Sherlock could just see by the dusky light where the leaves were still swaying slightly after the passage of whatever it was, and he tore after the signs of movement with John in his wake.
The two of them threaded through trees and deeper and deeper into the forest at an increasing pace until Sherlock started to hear the sound of hooves. Could it be a unicorn? Sherlock didn't stop to think about that longer than it took for his excitement to spike, and he grinned to himself as he and John chased the sound further and further into the trees. The trees were beginning to thicken, and Sherlock could tell that they were heading northwest and towards the Black Lake on the southern end of the Hogwarts grounds.
Eventually Sherlock caught a glimpse of the retreating leg of a horse, and the back of a man's head was just visible before the figure was entirely swallowed up by the trees. His heart sank. He stopped abruptly and thrust out an arm to stop John, who barreled straight into the outstretched limb. Sherlock was knocked off his feet, and both boys crashed to the ground. Far from being irritated, however, Sherlock started to laugh, and soon both of them were lying on the forest floor and rolling onto their sides, laughing their heads off.
Sherlock calmed himself down first, of course, and when he looked over at John he finally noticed that darkness had almost fallen completely. John giggled for a moment longer, then sat up as Sherlock had done.
"That," said John breathlessly, "was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."
"You attend Hogwarts," said Sherlock, pulling a face. "What could be more ridiculous than allowing yourself to be shipped off to an unknown part of the country to study magic with a bunch of people you've never met before when you're only eleven?"
"Yeah, but that isn't just me," said John defensively.
Sherlock stood up and pulled out his wand again, lighting up the area around them with his wand tip. He saw that John was now frowning at him as he got to his feet.
"You said that like you're Muggle-born," said John quizzically.
"So what if I am?" said Sherlock, frowning back.
"Nothing," said John. "So nothing, of course," he said.
Sherlock could tell that he was being sincere. "We were chasing a centaur," he said, pointing in the direction it had gone.
"Wait, so basically just something big that happened to move outside of the window?" asked John.
"Yeah," said Sherlock. "Although, it was significantly more likely that it would be either a unicorn or someone who had no good business going into the forest, as people who venture in here rarely do and the centaurs hardly ever come that close to human settlements."
"You sound defensive."
"Not at all." Sherlock turned away from John at that moment however, because he could hear something else crashing towards them. He held his wand out at arm's length, ready to face it.
After just a moment more, however, it became clear that it was Hagrid.
"Hagrid!" called Sherlock, thinking it best that he let the gamekeeper recognize his voice. He could be quite quick with that crossbow of his, after all.
Hagrid thundered into the clearing. "Sherlock! John! What're you two doin' in 'ere?" he asked, clearly shocked.
"Thought we saw a unicorn, and we were following it in," answered Sherlock calmly. "Turned out to just be a centaur, though."
"Just a centaur?" repeated Hagrid faintly. "Just a centaur? Yer lucky he didn't turn right around an' attack you, you are!"
"Hm, lucky," said Sherlock. "I seem to be that a lot," he said blandly. John laughed.
Hagrid looked over at him, and John immediately cleared his throat and tried to look somber.
"Anyway, tha's not the righ' way ter get to them unicorns," said Hagrid, addressing Sherlock. "I've just been ter see the herd."
"Yes?" said Sherlock, his tone changing immediately as his interest was snared. "Did you find the foal?"
"No," said Hagrid. "The youn'est one among 'em was no older'an three, with its coat jus' finishin' turning ter silver. None o' the other unicorns seemed tha' upset, though, mind you."
Sherlock stared off into the distance past Hagrid, his mouth slightly agape as his mind rushed take in all that Hagrid had said and figure out what it must mean. "There never was any foal," said Sherlock softly.
"Sorry?" said John. "But you said that the mother unicorn had recently just given birth." He looked at Hagrid for confirmation.
"Righ', yeah, you did, Sherlock," Hagrid said.
"She had, she had," said Sherlock, waving a hand and turning around in a circle as he thought. "The baby must have been stillborn...she had given birth, and you would have noticed different behavior in the herd if the baby had just been killed, right, Hagrid?"
"Righ' ya are, Sherlock," said Hagrid, nodding. "Nothin' out o' the ordinary with the herd. They was all goin' about their business like always, they woulda been actin' differently if they'd just lost a foal, tha's for sure," he said confidently.
"And the other unicorns killed beforehand...," said Sherlock slowly. He was staring at John now as he spoke, who just stared back at him bemusedly. "That means he's taking something from them," said Sherlock definitively. "I'm positive. The killer isn't after a baby unicorn after all, he's been taking something from the unicorns all along."
"But none o' 'em were missin' their horns, and none o' 'em 'ad any puncture marks or anythin' where sommat coulda been drinking the blood," said Hagrid thoughtfully. "None o' 'em seemed ter even be missin' any o' their hairs."
"No, you're right, Hagrid," said Sherlock. "We need to go back to the last one, and I need to inspect it again," he said resolutely. "There was something I missed, I'm sure of it."
"Students aren't supposed to be in the forest at all, Sherlock!" said Hagrid, his voice bordering on anger. "I should be takin' you straight up ter the school!"
"But you're not going to, Hagrid," said Sherlock. "Because you want to find this killer almost as much as I do, and you know that you need me. I'm how you're going to catch them, no matter how many school rules it takes breaking for me to get there."
Hagrid sighed heavily. "Yer righ', o' course, Sherlock. "I dunno why I put up with this, from a student like you...but heaven knows I need ter see this good for nuthin' slime stopped..." Hagrid sighed again, then beckoned for them to follow him as he walked off into the trees. "Come with me, you two," he said heavily. "I was just abou' ter bury her, too."
Sherlock made quick eye contact with John as he turned to follow Hagrid, and saw that the other boy seemed apprehensive, but also excited and eager. So the two of them trundled after Hagrid through the woods, following his winding path through the Forbidden Forest and in the direction of Hogwarts.
Sherlock soon realized that Hagrid had moved the unicorn's body away from its original position, and, sure enough, when Hagrid finally brought them to where it lay, they were on the outskirts of the forest and quite far from where they had been before. The back of Hagrid's cabin and his pumpkin patch was just visible through the trees, and there was a very small clearing that was just big enough for a unicorn body and the others to stand, presumably a place that Hagrid was planning to dig up so that he could bury the unicorn there.
Wordlessly, the Ravenclaw bent over the body again, peering at it closely. There was something that he'd missed before, something that he had to have missed...the killer had extracted something from the body, something that he needed...
After only a few minutes, Sherlock rocked back on his heels. He'd found it. "Part of the hoof," he said to the other two. This seemed to just confuse both of them. "The hoof!" He insisted. When neither of them reacted with anything more than confused stares, he sighed, knowing he'd have to explain more. "The killer has cut off a small part of the unicorn's hoof, just a little bit from each one. It's something that isn't likely to be noticed at first, obviously, so the killer seems to be trying to make sure that their purpose for killing the unicorns isn't easily identified. That's because it's not something obvious and expected, like just drinking the blood—unicorn hooves aren't used for much, but there is a potion, and it's considered extremely dark and not something that would ever be taught at Hogwarts. The Draught of the Defeated uses unicorn hooves. It's a powerful Dark potion that works something like a combination of the Imperious Curse and the creation of Inferius."
"What, so that means that it turns you into a sort of...subservient zombie?" asked John, horrified.
"Ignoring your blatant lack of eloquence, yes, John," replied Sherlock. "It can be used by Dark wizards to control the drinker and force them to do their bidding, but it also destroys cognitive reasoning and leaves the drinker in a trance-like state and removes their sense of self."
"That's horrible!" said John.
"Yes, no doubt it is, John," said Sherlock briskly. "And it's not something that you were going to know about, Hagrid, to check to see if any of the bodies were missing bits of their hooves. Only students who have done really advanced reading in areas of Defense Against the Dark Arts or Potions that border on actually learning the Dark Arts themselves would have come across it."
John was staring at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes yet again, and then spoke in a voice dripping with exasperation. "Oh, perhaps I should mention: I'm not the killer."
"Do people often assume you are?" asked John.
"Sometimes. Anyway, obviously the potion itself is extremely dark, which is why it's all the more important that we find the killer, not only to stop them killing off the unicorns, but also before they are able to start, or, more importantly, complete, the potion."
"You can say tha' again!" said Hagrid. "So d'you have have more ideas on how ter find them, Sherlock?" he asked.
Sherlock held up a finger, then bit his lip, thinking hard. The Draught of the Defeated was a complicated, laborious potion...it would need concentration, space to work...the killer had proven themselves clever, without a doubt, but also prone to make mistakes...and the places where the unicorns were found, and the position of the herd...they way Hagrid had approached them when they were in the Forbidden Forest, yes, the direction from which he had come suggested—
Sherlock's pulse had quickened as he raced down this train of thought, but once he reached his conclusion, he blinked several times, losing sight of the other two in front of them. He turned slowly on the spot, facing away from them, consumed by the realization of where the killer would be.
He thought he heard John or Hagrid say something to him, but it was indistinct and he'd almost completely blocked them out. He vaguely thought that he might have heard himself reply something meaningless back to placate them, but soon he was sprinting away from them and the forest and oblivious to their shouts after him. He could see his goal just over the hill—the Whomping Willow. He had to follow its passageway to the Shrieking Shack to find the killer.
Sherlock sprinted up towards the enormous tree, his robes flowing out behind him as he ran—Drat these impractical clothes! he thought to himself. It was a shame that Muggle clothing was frowned upon in the Wizarding World, because Sherlock had found on multiple occasions that it was much more practical than long wizard's robes.
Finally he reached the base of the tree, where he pointed his wand at the hectic branches and shouted "Immobilus!" The tree immediately froze, as if it were a gargantuan statue instead of a real plant, and Sherlock rushed forward to lower himself through the opening in the knobbly trunk, a gap that it would be nearly impossible to spot unless you were looking for it. Sherlock landed on the earthy floor of the passageway in a crumpled heap, but it wasn't long before he was back on his feet and moving through the tunnel as fast as its low ceiling and narrow walls would allow, growing nearer and nearer to his goal of the Shrieking Shack, which he was sure had recently become the killer's hideout.
Sherlock had been inside the Shrieking Shack before, of course. He had actually discovered this passageway in the opposite way from which he was now using it, by going from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts. It had seemed quite suspicious to him that no one ever entered the building, especially since the rumors that it was haunted didn't seem to add up. Sherlock had never been able to find a single Hogwarts ghost who had visited it, or in fact knew any other departed souls who had, either, and the house had been silent for several years. Once he had broken into the building, the passage to Hogwarts was obvious. It also explained why the Whomping Willow grew on the Hogwarts grounds—Sherlock had come to suspect that whenever something that dangerous was purposely allowed to stay on the school grounds, it was because it was hiding something.
"What's he doing?" John asked Hagrid in alarm.
"Jus' runnin' off to go an' check some theory, I suppose," said Hagrid. "He does that."
"So I've been told," said John, staring after Sherlock.
Hagrid snorted at his tone. "I'd feel sorry fer ya, John, if you weren' out o' bounds in the first place. What d'you think yer doin', wanderin' 'round the Forbidden Forest with Sherlock Holmes at night?"
John was only half listening. He could see over the roof of Hagrid's cabin that the Whomping Willow's branches had just gone oddly still. What could have caused that? Wait...thought John. Didn't Sherlock go in that direction?
"Oh, what?" said John, slowly turning his head back to face Hagrid. "Oh, right. Forest, dark...well, er, Sherlock seemed to have this idea about looking for the unicorn herd if it passed by, and..."
"So he didn't seem ter think that I could do me own ruddy job good enough?" mumbled Hagrid. "Well, I reckon that's jus' Sherlock Holmes fer ya, innit?"
"Oh, er, yes, well I suppose so," said John, not sure what else he was expected to say and also quite preoccupied with whatever had just happened to the Whomping Willow. He couldn't manage to shake the uneasy feeling that was settling in his gut, that Sherlock was in danger.
"I'm gonna have ter take you up ter the castle, now, John," said Hagrid, sounding uncharacteristically stern. "It's after hours, an' the on'y reason I'm not takin' yer straight to Professor McGonagall is that I owe Sherlock more than a couple o' favors at this point."
"Thank you very much, Hagrid," said John, paying enough attention to realize that Hagrid had just saved him from being in very deep trouble. He certainly knew how strict Professor McGonagall could be, and he'd heard about her settling some pretty harsh punishments on Gryffindors who were found out of bed at night. She must be twice as hard on students caught out of bed and in the Forbidden Forest at night.
Sighing, John allowed himself to be led up to the castle by Hagrid. As they walked up to the school, however, John was thinking about how he was going to manage to get away and back out on the grounds to see what had happened to the Whomping Willow. Was Sherlock behind it, or had the killer ambushed him and done something to both Sherlock and the tree? John shuddered to think what could have happened.
Hagrid insisted in escorting him all the way to Gryffindor tower, but once John had climbed through the portrait hole, he paused in the common room only to see that it was deserted. John was surprised, since he didn't think he and Sherlock could possibly have been out of the school for that long, but checking the clock above the mantle over the crackling fire showed him that it was just after midnight. Time must have been passing much quicker than it had felt. John dashed up the spiral staircase towards his dormitory, grabbed his scarf, and was out again.
It was going to be risky, but somehow John knew that he had to go after Sherlock. True, he didn't know for sure where the other boy had gone, but John had never seen the Whomping Willow freeze like that in all his time at Hogwarts and he was convinced that it had to be because someone had made it do so. It had to have been Sherlock.
John didn't know any way to conceal himself besides relying on his dark clothing and ability to stay quiet, so as soon as the Fat Lady had swung aside to let him back outside into the rest of the school, he felt his heartbeat escalate and his fear of being caught intensify. John crept along the corridors as quickly as he dared, praying that he wouldn't meet Peeves. After what seemed like the most nerve-wracking hours of his life, though it had really been only barely more than fifteen minutes, John had reached the Entrance Hall.
He took a deep breath before proceeding. The only way out seemed to be the front door...but that seemed like such a risk to take. Then John's eyes feel upon a door on the side of the hall—it was unremarkable, but if John had any luck, its room might have a window that he could climb out of instead.
To his relief, it did, and John quickly unlocked it and then climbed onto the window sill. He dropped down to the ground, then straightened and looked around. All was still dark and quiet.
John sprinted across the grounds to the Whomping Willow, which still wasn't moving. All he could do was hope that none of the teachers happened to look out of the window and see him crossing the grounds at 12:30 in the morning.
John reached the tree, panting, and walked around it slowly. What had happened, and why was it so still? He looked along the base of the tree carefully, and had done nearly two revolutions around its trunk before he noticed the gap between some of its gnarly masses of trunk and the ground. There was an opening in the trunk of the tree, and it didn't just look like an uneven part in the wood, it looked like it was the entrance to a passageway.
John took a deep breath and tried to steel his nerves. All he had to do was walk straight into the Whomping Willow, and...see where it took him. This had to be where Sherlock had gone. But this seemed mad! Why would there be a secret passageway underneath the Whomping Willow? It didn't seem to make any sense. Then again, nothing had seemed to since he'd met Sherlock. It didn't make sense that John was so intent on tagging along with him, when Sherlock had yet to express much of a real interest in John. And it didn't make sense that Sherlock seemed to reveal a whole other side to Hogwarts, one that was dark and mysterious and...captivating. It didn't make sense that this was captivating. It was mad! And it didn't make sense that John was suddenly caught up in all of it. Nothing happened to him, wasn't that true?
But then, John thought. The only reason I'm caught up in it is because I'm letting myself be. He looked up at the stars above him, as if searching for encouragement or bravery. What he saw instead was that the top branches of the Whomping Willow seemed to be gaining mobility.
Well, that's one decision made for me, thought John. And he plunged down into the passageway.
Immediately upon entering the building, Sherlock could tell that there was someone else inside it. He carefully climbed the wooden stairs, growing nearer and nearer to his opponent. Then Sherlock could practically feel his quarry freeze somewhere above him, as if they had sensed Sherlock approaching them, and after that, he didn't bother to mask his footsteps and he strode confidently up the stairs and towards the killer.
Sherlock crossed the small landing and pushed open the door to the top room, its paint ancient and peeling. When he stepped in, he saw that it may have at one point served as a bedroom—there was a dilapidated four-poster bed in one corner, surrounded by dusty and moth-eaten hangings, and broken, boarded-up windows lined the walls. In the more recent past, however, the room had been transformed into a space for potioneering—a wide array of ingredients and potion implements were laid out across the floor, dirty cutting boards and knives, pouches and jars of ingredients at varying levels of depletion. In the center of the mess crouched a teenage boy. He was wearing Hogwarts robes with the Slytherin crest, and Sherlock could tell that he was a sixth year. The boy's eyes were fixed on Sherlock a soon as he came into view.
Sherlock could also tell upon sight was that this wasn't the same boy who had been preparing the potion that was now simmering underneath a small fire in the corner. He was there to prepare ingredients and monitor the potion's progress, but he wasn't its brewer. There was someone else involved, too.
Once Sherlock had stepped across the threshold, the boy jumped to his feet and whipped out his wand, pointing it at Sherlock threateningly. Sherlock, of course, had already had his raised upon entering the room, but the other boy was fast, much faster than Sherlock had anticipated—he had obviously been hired or coerced into this task for good reason.
"Don't move," said the boy, staring at Sherlock. "Or I'll blast you into so many pieces they'll never find your body."
Sherlock glared back at the boy down his own raised wand. "You have no reason to believe your reflexes are better than mine," he said, calmly. It was true, too—even if this other boy had been able to stand up and arm himself in time to match Sherlock, there was no reason to think that Sherlock couldn't rival him in a duel now that they both had their wands trained on each other. "We're on even ground, both with wands pointed at each other. You don't have the upper hand," said Sherlock.
The other boy seemed to realize it, but not want to admit it or show any sign of fear. He was grinding his jaw as he stared evenly at Sherlock. "You're Sherlock Holmes."
"Indeed," said Sherlock. "And how do you know about me?"
"I've heard what they say about you in our common room. You're not much liked there, I can assure you," the other boy answered.
"When you say 'our' common room, are you referring to 'our' collectively because it's the common room your sponsor also shares?" asked Sherlock.
The boy narrowed his eyes, but he'd allowed surprise to flicker across his face for an instant. "What makes you think I have a sponsor?"
"Please," snorted Sherlock. "You, brewing up a Draught of the Defeated? Not likely. All I had to do is take a glance at the stance you were holding on the floor there a minute ago to know that you're monitoring this operation for someone bigger. You've never brewed anything more complicated than a nosebleed cure."
"Someone bigger, yeah, right," said the boy with what edged on a smirk, but Sherlock could tell he was unnerved even if he was doing his best to mask it. "In one sense of the word."
"What's your name?" asked Sherlock.
"Why should I tell you?"
"It would take me mere minutes to find it out when I go back to the school. Professor McGonagall has me working on this case, and I'm sure that with the thorough description I'll be more than happy to give it would take her moments to identify you."
The boy bit his lip, but it was clear that Sherlock's words rang true. "Sebastian Moran," he said softly. Then he tightened his grip of his wand, attempting to seem more threatening to Sherlock as he held it trained on him. Sherlock had to fight the impulse to roll his eyes, as it would have made him take his gaze off Moran for a split second. Moran was three years older than him, but Sherlock was far from intimidated. He felt completely calm as he faced down the older boy.
"So why are you agreeing to go searching after unicorn hooves for a potion you can barely even understand, for some other student probably a few years younger than you?" Sherlock mused, remembering Moran's comment about the sponsor being smaller than him. As Sherlock watched the other boy carefully, he reached yet more deductions. "Ah, I see. You're dying, aren't you? But you've given up hope. That's why you haven't even been taking the blood from the unicorns. Well, I always thought that Hogwarts didn't offer much counseling or other support to its students." Sherlock could see something flicker in Moran's eyes and saw that he'd hit the truth directly. The deduction had come only after a moment's deliberation. There was the recent and quick weight loss, even though Moran had evidently been quite muscular beforehand, his stance and the bags under his eyes, other tell-tale signs of depression, and also the solidarity and desperation of his situation, here in the Shrieking Shack, tending a potion for someone else's plot. "What must your sponsor be paying you?" asked Sherlock, with a slight frown.
"Enough," said Moran tightly. "More than you're ever going to get for all your trouble, enough to send back to my sister."
"Ah, your sister. Of course, that's where the other motivation comes in. What, parents in Azkaban?"
Moran didn't nod or give any other outward sign of confirmation, but again, Sherlock could tell that he was right.
"Hmm, typical," breathed Sherlock. "So who is he?" he said more loudly again. "Your sponsor? Or she, I suppose, although 'he' is statistically more likely."
"There's no way you're about to get that out of me," said Moran with a dry curl to his lips and slight shake of his head.
"Right, but of course," said Sherlock, again resisting the temptation to roll his eyes. Sherlock took a single step closer to Moran, knowing that he'd have to act somehow if he wanted to end this deadlock between them and have a chance at incapacitating Moran.
"Come any closer, and I'll kill you," said Moran, his eyes wide and crazed.
"Oh, I'm sure," said Sherlock lightly. He took another step closer, and Moran gripped his wand with both hands, his teeth bared and his expression wild.
Sherlock took another step.
John ran down the passageway as best he could, but it was quite narrow and he couldn't sprint the way he could in the open air. He was a good deal shorter than Sherlock, however, and he was able to therefore cover the distance of the passageway much more quickly than the Ravenclaw had since he didn't have to bend over so much. He came to the end of the tunnel, and was apprehensively looking around the room he had come out into. It was wooden and old, and John knew that he'd left Hogwarts far behind and had to be somewhere in Hogsmeade. He tried to control his heavy breathing and keep quiet—there were people talking upstairs, creaking floorboards also testifying to their presence. It had to be Sherlock and the killer.
It was clear to John that there was no way he'd be able to get upstairs unnoticed by the others so that he could surprise Sherlock's opponent. He would have to find another way to approach the scene, a way that meant neither of them would realize that he was there. Well, I may not be able to surprise Sherlock thought John, but he's not the one I'm worried about noticing me. He hurriedly looked around the bottom floor of the building where he had surfaced, making as little noise as possible, and found what he needed—a back door.
John slipped through it, barely opening it so that he didn't cause too much noise with the door's rusty hinges, and looked around the area around him outside. He could see the other buildings of Hogsmeade, but they were distant, and John was clearly on the edge of the village. He took in the aged house that he had just come out of, with its sagging levels and boarded-up windows. It only took John a moment to realize that he had followed Sherlock to the Shrieking Shack.
John clapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from gasping or yelling in shock, but a moment later he realized that he was quite calm. He was tense, for sure, and he realized that his and Sherlock's situation was quite dire, and he had to do something quickly, but he could also tell that he had his fear quite under control. Though his heart was pounding madly, his hands were quite steady.
There was light coming from the top floor, where Sherlock and the killer must be. John looked around quickly, and his eyes fell upon a thick and tall tree nearby. It was knobbly, which meant it would be full of footholds, and it had branches thick enough to sit on that curved above the roof of the building. John dashed over to it and began to climb.
Soon he was maneuvering himself along a long branch that hung over the Shrieking Shack, growing closer and closer to the voices that were coming from below him. There was a large crack in the roof, and John carefully positioned himself over it so that he could see into the room beneath him. There they were—Sherlock was standing near the end of the room, near the door, his wand held out in front of him and pointing at the other figure, who John saw was an older boy, some ten or twelve feet away from Sherlock and with his wand trained threateningly on him. John listened carefully, trying to make out what they were saying to each other, but even without hearing their words, he knew that things were getting urgent and he had to act fast.
"So who is he?" came Sherlock's voice. "Your sponsor? Or she, I suppose, although 'he' is statistically more likely."
"There's no way you're about to get that out of me," said the other boy. It was impossible for John to make out their expressions from this angle.
"Right, but of course," said Sherlock, and John saw him take a step in the other boy's direction.
"Come any closer, and I'll kill you," said the boy, his voice an angry, frightened whisper.
"Oh, I'm sure," said Sherlock, and John's breath caught as he registered his tone. Sherlock didn't sound scared in the least, but to John, looking down from his perch in the tree and over the tense scene, everything seemed to be hanging by a thread. Sherlock took another step closer, and John gasped. The other boy looked ready to strike.
Sherlock decided to make his move—he might as well lash out at the boy now, nothing was going to change if he waited any longer. He saw, however, just as he opened his mouth and yelled "Petrificus Totalus!" that Moran had seen what he was about to do. The other boy moved to hex Sherlock just as he cast his spell, and his scream of "Bombarda!" sounded through the entire building. Sherlock whipped his wand in front of his body, shouting "Protego!" to cast a shield charm in front of himself, and at the same time he dropped down to the floor and the two previous spells he and Moran had cast at each other collided in the air between them and sent out a shockwave through the room that left scorch marks on the walls. As Sherlock moved, he saw a burst of red light fly down from the ceiling, and Moran was caught completely unaware by the spell. His body crumpled, and he hit the floor hard, unconscious.
Sherlock got to his feet and whipped his head up to see where the spell had come from. The tree branches above him shivered in the nighttime breeze, but there was no one there. Sherlock had a strong suspicion of who it had been, however.
He crossed to Moran's body and turned him over with his foot so that he was facing the ceiling. The Slytherin had been knocked out, stunned by the spell that Sherlock had seen come from the cracks in the ceiling and was convinced John had cast. The potion had been upended in the fight, and the cauldron's contents were now spilled in a boiling puddle on the wooden floor in the corner. It was isolated, however, and Sherlock put it out of mind for the time being.
Sherlock stood above Moran and looked down on him with distaste. Then he pointed his wand at the immobile body and said "Ennervate." Moran's eyes blinked several times, and he let out a moan and tried to roll over onto his side. Sherlock quickly stepped on his chest, however, keeping him from moving. The boy gasped in pain and looked up at Sherlock, his eyes now wide and terrified.
"Give me the name!" Sherlock shouted at him. "Who was your sponsor?"
"No!" screamed Moran back at him. "I can't tell you! He'll kill me! He'll torture me!"
"You're going to Azkaban as it is, if you don't die first!" shouted Sherlock. He increased the pressure of his foot against Moran's chest. "Give me the wretched name!"
"No, please!" wailed Moran.
"THE NAME!" Bellowed Sherlock.
"Moriarty!" cried Moran, his eyes screwed up and blood seeping out of his mouth. Sherlock took his foot off of him, and Moran's body went limp as he gave up all resistance and rolled over to sob into the floor. Just then, there was a bang! as the door was nearly forced off its hinges and John rocketed into the room.
"What happened?" John demanded, panting heavily. "Did you get him? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," said Sherlock, still staring down at Moran. "This one isn't, though. But I was right, he is the killer. His name is Sebastian Moran, and he's been operating under the direction of someone else, someone called Moriarty. We'll get him back up to the school, McGonagall and Dumbledore can decide how to deal with him," said Sherlock, his own breathing still heavy as adrenaline coursed through him.
"Who's Moriarty?" asked John. John was completely bewildered at the sight in front of him. Sherlock seemed unscathed, though slightly shaken, but the Slytherin boy who had been threatening him was now a sobbing mass on the dirty floor.
"No idea," said Sherlock. "Come on, let's tie him up. We can take him back up to the school together."
"Maybe we should get Hagrid," suggested John.
"Not a bad idea," conceded Sherlock.
"What do we do with the potion?" asked John, pointing at the corner where it was still sizzling against the wooden floor boards.
"We'll leave it here for now," answered Sherlock, casting it a glance. "It can't be used in this state, and it was incomplete to begin with, but we shouldn't vanish it or anything because it could be used as evidence of what Moran and Moriarty were plotting."
"Right," said John, nodding once and still tense beyond belief. "Right."
Sherlock cast a spell to bind Moran tightly in ropes, and then he and John levitated him out of the room and then back down the passageway to the Whomping Willow. Once they were out in the open of the grounds again, they stopped at Hagrid's cabin to wake up the gamekeeper.
Hagrid, it seemed, had not been asleep, since he immediately answered the door and gasped at the sight of the two boys and their captive. "What—Sherlock! What happened?!"
After a brief explanation from Sherlock, Hagrid hurried out of his cabin to accompany them back up to the school, and then all the way to Professor McGonagall's office as Sherlock filled both him and John in on the finer details of the recent events. Both of them were aghast at how serious the case had been, and how dangerous Moran and his sponsor were.
Once they were inside Professor McGonagall's office, the deputy headmistress rushed to meet them, then collapsed into her chair behind her desk and clutched her heart. "Holmes! Hagrid! Watson!" she gasped. "Explain yourselves!"
Sherlock repeated his story for her, and after he had finished, Professor McGonagall called for the headmaster to come down, too. Once again, Sherlock had to recount what had happened for Dumbledore to hear, beginning with his first foray into the woods with Hagrid, John, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson so that he could see the unicorn. The others were silent the whole time, and John watched as Dumbledore listened attentively and fixed Sherlock with his penetrating, bright-eyed gaze throughout his tale.
"Thank you, Sherlock," said Dumbledore, once he had finished. He had barely spoken upon entering the room and had remained silent all throughout Sherlock's explanation. "For telling me all this, and for your role in identifying Mr. Moran as the killer." Dumbledore paused. "I do hope you understand, however, that in doing so, you broke a multitude of school rules, and when you decided to investigate the Shrieking Shack you entered into an extremely dangerous situation when you would have done better to come to Professor McGonagall with what you suspected."
John held his breath. Could Sherlock be expelled for what had happened? Could he?
"As did you, Mr. Watson," said Dumbledore, turning to address John. John's heart plummeted as he looked back into Dumbledore's blue eyes, feeling x-rayed by his stare. "When you thought that Sherlock might be in danger, you should have immediately contacted a teacher to enlist their help in finding him.
"However—" said Dumbledore, his voice lightening just slightly from his grave tone—John felt something inside him look upwards in hope—"You have done a great service for Hogwarts today. It is clear that there was a plot within our school that could have ended in great harm to its students, and we were most fortunate to have you to help us avoid it, and so quickly, too." Dumbledore gave them a small smile. "Therefore, you will both receive awards for special services to the school, and, ah, let's see, seventy points to Ravenclaw for Mr. Holmes, and fifty to Gryffindor for Mr. Watson."
John gave a small laugh, then immediately covered his mouth. He wasn't going to be expelled!
"It is my profound hope, however, that we never have to witness something like this again," said Dumbledore seriously. "And I hope that in the future, both of you will set a little more store by the rules, and, much more importantly, your own safety." As he said this, John looked up into the headmaster's eyes and saw that they were twinkling behind the half-moon spectacles. Dumbledore was smiling down at them gently.
"And now, I'm afraid, it is quite time for bed," said Dumbledore. "I trust that you two can make your way back to your common rooms on your own, without being escorted?"
"Yes, sir," said Sherlock, nodding.
"Good," said Dumbledore. "Professor McGonagall and Hagrid and I will need to stay here to determine what is to be done next, especially with regards to Mr. Moran here. Good night, Sherlock and John."
Sherlock gave a nod to the headmaster, and then crossed to the door and held it open for John, who walked through it. Only when they were both out in the hallway and the door shut closed behind him, did John let out a long, low whistle.
"For a moment there, I thought we'd had it, for sure!" he said to Sherlock, laughing just a bit as he spoke.
Sherlock grinned. "Did you see the look on McGonagall's face while he was talking?" he sniggered.
John laughed alongside him. "No, what was it like?"
"She couldn't believe he was letting us off that easy," said Sherlock in a satisfied voice, still laughing.
"Shhh, we can't giggle! Not after what just happened!" John said, but he was having difficulty controlling his own laughter, and his lowered voice still seemed to echo in the dark and empty corridor.
"Well you're the one who actually stunned him," said Sherlock, regarding John with amusement. John thought that in this lighting, Sherlock's eyes seemed to be a deep hazel green.
"I know that!" said John as they walked away from McGonagall's office and towards the main chamber of staircases. "But you did attack him first."
"Are you okay, then?" asked Sherlock. John found his expression impossible to read. He couldn't tell if Sherlock was genuinely interested in his state of mind or not, but from all he had seen of the boy, it seemed difficult for him to picture Sherlock asking anyone else the same question.
"I'm fine," said John, and he felt that it was quite true.
Sherlock smiled at him, and John smiled back, having just put a hand on the staircase docked at the landing. The two boys looked at each other for a moment like that. Then Sherlock broke the silence.
"Knew you'd show up," he said offhandedly, jumping onto the staircase alongside John. It detached itself from the landing, slowly beginning to take them up a few levels.
"No you didn't," said John, snorting at him.
"Of course I did," grinned Sherlock. "That's why I was talking to him for so long, I was just playing for time until you came along."
"No you weren't," insisted John. "You were probably enjoying yourself, you maniac," he laughed at him.
They were now at the landing on the seventh floor, the Fat Lady snoozing away in her portrait in front of them. They both hopped off the staircase, and John approached the portrait. "Novellus amicitia," he said to her. At first the Fat Lady did not wake up. John repeated the password more loudly and insistently.
"Oh, fine, then!" said the Fat Lady, giving a great yawn. "Come on in then! Though what you two are doing up at this hour...," she muttered darkly as she swung forward to admit John.
Sherlock looked at John with his head tilted to the side, and a half-smile playing across his lips. John paused in entering, watching Sherlock and waiting for him to say something.
"Dinner?" asked Sherlock shortly.
"I'm starving," said John.
"Excellent," said Sherlock, smiling at him. "We can get down to the kitchens with no problems, I know just the way to go. Once you get in, the house elves practically line up to give away food."
John's face lit up. "Really? I wanted to try and find the kitchens once, but then I never really got around to it."
"It's simple," said Sherlock, turning away from the portrait hole, and John doing the same. "There's a hallway near the Hufflepuff common room, and once you get to the picture of a bowl of fruit, you tickle the pear and it lets you right in."
"Brilliant!" said John.
"Well what was the point of waking me up, then, if you're just about to go off and leave again?" demanded the Fat Lady angrily from behind them.
"Oh, don't mind us!" said John. "I expect I'll be back sometime after breakfast, knowing this one," he said, grinning at Sherlock.
And so the two of them left, heading back down the staircases and to the kitchens. John wasn't exactly sure what he was starting, what new chapter in his life he was opening up. But as he looked at Sherlock, his eyes glittering mischievously under a mop of curly and unruly black hair, his mouth lifting just at the edges in a small smile in John's direction, John couldn't help smiling back and feeling his heart lift. He didn't know what he was getting into, exactly, but it had to be better than what he had been living with for the past several months, the existence he was sure he was now leaving completely behind.
AN: I hope that all of you enjoyed that! Just so you know, I would expect there to be longer story arcs like this from now on (hopefully) instead of short scenes like I did for years one and two. Those should be outliers in the way they're structured. I wanted to establish both John and Sherlock as characters and give some background before having them meet each other, so that's why those two were done like that. Thanks for reading, and stay tuned! Reviews are always fantastic, if you would like to leave one with any comments. Happy summer!