A Study in Magic
by Books of Change
Warning/Notes: This is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline has been shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender has changed for the sake of the plot. The story was planned and written before season 2 (but incorporating elements of thereof as much as possible). Readers beware!
Chapter Twenty Four: Canyons of the Mind
John rummaged through the medicine cabinet whilst savouring the immense relief that came with the knowledge Sherlock was safely sequestered in the bedroom. The Prague case turned out to be a harrowing one, requiring Sherlock to work eighteen hours days for two months straight. Sherlock had sent John back to London after the first month because from thereon out the case required deep undercover work, and, as much as it hurt to admit it, John simply couldn't do subterfuge. At the end of October, news reached John that Sherlock had unravelled the biggest swindling operation in recent Eastern European memory. The ringleader was at the point of bankrupting many countries and was incidentally responsible for the mass grave in Prague. Radio silence prevailed on news regarding Sherlock's welfare and location until Mycroft texted an address in East Germany.
John had found Sherlock in a darkened hotel room, completely prostrate on the bed and as thin as a wraith. He didn't react when John quietly settled next to him. His white, claw-like hand twitched when John ran a hand through his matted curls.
"I think I should consider a more placid line in life," Sherlock said into the pillow.
That was tantamount to Sherlock admitting defeat, so John wasted no time bundling him back home. That was about a week ago. Sherlock had improved enough to emerge from nervous prostration to the comparatively preferred state of bored and irritable. John gave him another week for his body catch up to his brain—or a couple of hours, if he took the pepper-up potion Snape had owled several months back.
John chuckled over the last thought. I'm a modern doctor subscribing to witch medicine. My life is absurd.
John found the corked bottle on the top shelf. After taking it down, John strode into the first floor bedroom where Sherlock was still duct-taped to the bed and flopped right on top him.
"Get off of me, you tyrannical harpy!" Sherlock snarled.
Yep, he was definitely feeling better, John decided, and dangled the bottle of pepper-up potion in front of his face.
"No pepper-up then? Oookaaay."
Sherlock immediately wrapping his legs, which he somehow freed, around John like a Venus flytrap that suffered a period of draught. John could easily break out of the hold without employing any grappling manoeuvres, but…
"Give it to me," Sherlock wheedled, all dewy-eyed and trembling-lips. "Please."
…it was a bit difficult when your adult-child of a husband used emotional blackmail.
"I should just let you heal at normal pace," said John as she uncorked the bottle. "You're a lot easier to manage when you're literally tied to one place."
John held the bottle to Sherlock's lips and he tipped it all in one go. In a few seconds his ears started smoking, and his grip around John presented serious grappling manoeuver level challenges. The glint in Sherlock's eyes certainly promised it was going to take some furious wrestling to get out of the current hold.
Two hours later, both John and Sherlock were immaculately dressed and at the sitting room table, drinking tea.
"Harry has a case, by the way," said John conversationally. "Someone petrified the caretaker's cat put up a bigoted message up a wall."
"Details?" Sherlock rumbled.
John swivelled the laptop around so Sherlock could read the email Harry had typed up. Sherlock read through it with a tiny frown.
"I'm more appalled at the wizard's inability to cope with logic than I am at the incident itself," Sherlock concluded.
"Obvious, then?" asked John.
"Disgustingly so," Sherlock confirmed.
"Figures you'd solve a mystery wizards and witches couldn't make heads or tails for a millennium," John remarked. "Please do us a favour and let them know: can't let it distract Harry from his magical education."
"That's precisely what he seems to be lacking," Sherlock grumbled. "Anyone who'd finished first year should be able to figure this one out."
"That minimal?" said John, "Walk me through it, please?"
"The Chamber of Secrets is supposed to contain a monster," Sherlock explained. "It's also associated with the House of Slytherin, which emblem is a snake. Snake type of monster sounds good then. What snake-type of monster exist that can kill you at a glance?"
It clicked immediately. "A Basilisk," Then John frowned. "But hang on. The cat was petrified, not killed."
"Harry noted there was a large puddle of water on the floor when the cat was discovered. It's far more likely the cat saw the reflection of the Basilisk, not the Basilisk itself. Magic being as it is, the reflection soften the blow, but didn't completely remove the effects."
"Makes sense," said John, nodding and texting at the same time. "There; told Dumbledore the beast is a Basilisk."
Sherlock grunted, clearly disappointed at the mystery. In about twenty minutes, Dumbledore texted back.
"Okay, Dumbledore agrees with you," said John. "Now he just has to find the person who has the ability to control a snake that can kill you if it looks at you in the eye. Wonder how you can do that? Just ask it politely, please don't look at me and look at something else- Sherlock?"
Sherlock's entire face transformed. It took a while for John to realise the expression: horror.
"…I wasn't thinking," Sherlock muttered furiously. "I need to go to Hogwarts."
"But you just said this was-"
"Think!" Sherlock shouted. "The Basilisk is wretchedly difficult to control. Even indirect eye-contact can harm you. How does a person communicate with a beast anyway? Normally the answer is one can't, but we know someone who has the ability to speak to snakes."
"We do?" said John blankly.
"London Zoo, John!" said Sherlock impatiently. "Don't tell me you forgot the time we went to the reptile house—"
The same horror crawled up to John's face.
"But-but Harry couldn't have," John protested.
"Couldn't he?"
John leaned away from the table, appalled at the suggestion.
"You don't actually think he did it," John whispered. "You can't."
"It doesn't matter whether I do," said Sherlock, his face like a mask. "The problem is whether other people do."
John gripped the edge of the table, white-knuckled. "…Dumbledore knows Harry can speak to snakes."
"So does McGonagall. Snape, too, most likely."
"Oh, God…"
That moment, John's phone chirped. John warily glanced at the new text.
"…Jack," John sighed in relief. "I can't believe I forgot she's there."
"Ask her if I can view the crime scene," Sherlock demanded, leaning over the table and grasping at John phone.
John kept him at arms-length, which wouldn't have helped much since Sherlock's arms were longer, but did because John's hand was planted on his face and John held the phone on the opposite side.
"Okay, so the first crime scene is too old and it's been scrubbed down. But there was another attack last night," John said, reading through the series of texts. "Victim was a first year kid. Petrified just like the caretaker's cat. Dumbledore thinks he was sneaking off to visit Harry at the Hospital Wing— wait, hang on, why was Harry in the Hospital Wing? I thought he got over the colds."
John fired off the question. Jacqueline took her time to respond. This usually meant she was trying to find a tactful but truthful way of conveying some pretty bad news.
"He broke his arm in the last Quidditch match?" John said, frowning deeply.
"But it only takes seconds to mend broken bones in the wizard world!" Sherlock growled, stilling grasping blindly. "Why did he stay overnight?"
John texted that question. Jacqueline took an even longer time to compose the response. The answer made it clear there was no nice way to relay the news.
"LOCKHART REMOVED ALL THE BONES IN HIS RIGHT ARM?!" John screeched.
"HOW IS HE STILL TEACHING!?" Sherlock roared.
John released the hold on Sherlock and started typing furiously. Sherlock watched the slipping fingers and backspacing for five seconds before snatching the phone out of John's hands. John was disinclined to rein him in.
"Go all out, Sherlock," John snarled.
"As if I would do anything else," said Sherlock, baring his teeth.
-oo00oo-
"Oh, dear, they're not happy," said Ms. Shin mournfully as her phone kept pinging inside the Headmaster's office. She read the volley texts and turned bright pink. "Um, I don't think I should directly relay the recent messages."
Severus was deeply curious as to how John Watson responded. "We're all adults here," he drawled.
"The phrasing makes me believe it was Mr. Holmes who responded," said Ms. Shin.
Severus didn't want to know how Sherlock Holmes responded. "Humph."
Dumbledore massaged an eyebrow, smiling ruefully.
"It never ceases to amaze me how Mr. Holmes is capable of such brilliance and exasperation," he said.
"My brother-in-law says the same," said Ms. Shin sympathetically.
"Be that as it may," said Severus, "He did give us a vital clue."
"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. "We will have to position roosters in all halls to protect the students, first off. The next step is discovering the person who is orchestrating the attacks."
"You don't posit Potter has anything to do with the attacks, despite knowing he is a Parselmouth?" Severus sneered.
"No, Severus, I do not think Harry has had any hand in the attacks," said Dumbledore firmly.
"Surely it is possible a highly skilled wizard or witch is manipulating Potter with the Imperius curse at the very least," Severus argued.
Dumbledore's eyes sparkled in a deeply uneasy way.
"Well, then, Severus," said Dumbledore casually. "If you feel so strongly about it, then I shall leave it to you to convey your suspicions to Harry's parents. They do, after all, have the right to know."
To Ms. Shin's credit, her face betrayed no emotion or reaction whatsoever.
"Unfortunately, I do not have the happy power of voicing my opinions to the parents of Gryffindor students," Severus countered.
"But seeing as you are the one who holds this view, I believe you should be the one to convey it," Dumbledore parried. "Surely you're not afraid of them?"
Ms. Shin remained resolutely expressionless. Severus scowled fiercely at the headmaster, who twinkled back at him. The old man brought Ms. Shin as audience to keep him from using some very choice words, he was sure of it.
"Oh, very well," Severus snapped. "I shall leave immediately to prevent this from blowing out of proportion."
"Thank you, Severus," said Dumbledore gravely. "Now, Jacqueline, regarding Mr. Holmes's request to view the crime scene…"
Severus didn't hear the rest of the conversation because he'd already left the headmaster's office. He didn't bother to linger because he didn't think even Dumbledore would be stupid enough to let a Muggle inside Hogwarts. About fifteen minutes later Severus found himself inside the infamous Baker Street flat.
"Hello, Snape," said Watson. The tone was as friendly and welcoming as usual, but there was stiffness about the expression that made Severus feel slightly apprehensive—for someone else. "Didn't think you'd come in person."
"Dumbledore insisted," said Severus.
"I was almost hoping he'd send Back-Pai… Lockhart," said Watson, correcting the stumble too late. "I want to have a word with him, but he's not responding."
Severus briefly indulged in the darkly pleasant fantasy of Watson challenging Lockhart to a duel; there were many broken bones and knockouts in the daydream. Sherlock Holmes, who was also present, ignored them in favour of the timeline he written and posted on the wall, rubbing his palms and pacing furiously.
"Entire length of summer, all Owl-post to this address was appropriated by a House-elf," Holmes suddenly erupted. "July 24th, the same House-elf warns Harry there is a plot waiting to unfold in Hogwarts, and tries to dissuade him from going to school. August 15th, someone removes my memory in Diagon Alley. September 1st, barrier to 9 and ¾ closes inexplicably. First attack happens October 31st, second attack happens November 5th; both incidents involve a Basilisk and none of the victims saw the snake directly. How did the second victim avoid direct eye contact?"
It took Severus a second to realise the question was directed at him.
"He had a camera."
"No pictures were taken, I presume?"
"It melted."
"Obviously," sneered Holmes, before moving on: "The only safe way control a Basilisk is speaking its language. Snake language exists. If ordering a common grass snake is no different from ordering a Basilisk, then there are three possibilities: we are dealing with an agent who can speak snake language and is directly ordering the events, an agent who is in league with or manipulating someone who can speak snake language, or the agent is using a recording of snake language to control the Basilisk. My tests on snake language clearly indicate one needs only a recording to make snakes obey commands. The actual person who speaks the language is unnecessary."
Severus somehow wasn't surprised Holmes had tested the parameters of Parseltongue.
"Spells that allow one to manipulate people must exist," Holmes continued. "The intent parameters are simple enough: do my command. The fundamental mechanics of spells is that it must let the caster focus on a single concept or intent. Incantations, wand-movement and such are mere tools to aid the caster to focus on the intent. Also, as long as the intent behind the spell does not violate the Law of Non-Contradiction, the spell can be done. It is foolish to think someone has not thought up a spell than can override another person's will and didn't use it."
"You speak of the Imperius Curse," said Severus, surprised that Holmes deduced its existence from reasoning alone.
"Not the incantation I would've used, but the concept is the same," said Holmes haughtily. "But here is the catch: the permanency of a spell depends on the caster's strength, the nature of the spell, and, in this case, the nature of the command. The command that would cover most options is: find the muggle-borns and attack them with the Basilisk without getting caught; otherwise act normally. This is a trifold command, which goes directly against the principle that a spell should focus on only one intention."
That was true, Severus had to acknowledge. A powerful wizard might be able to enforce two indefinite commands via the Imperius Curse, but not three.
"The crime itself presents itself as political/ideological one," Holmes went on. "But if this was really an ideological crime, the instigating party would claim responsibility for the attack since media attention is usually their goal. But there have been no such moves. It is far more likely someone is using the supposedly ideological crime to discredit someone else for their own gain. Dumbledore is one possible target, but this doesn't exclude the possibility the true instigator is using a student who, upon discovery, would discredit the parents by association."
Watson pondered this.
"Either way," said Watson. "The intended victim of this crime is someone who publically doesn't support pure-blood superiority. Otherwise it wouldn't cause that big of a scandal."
"Ah, good you follow," said Holmes, nodding at Watson in approval. "Regardless of whether he was the primary target or not, Dumbledore can hardly avoid being affected by this incident. Dumbledore has his share of enemies, certainly. It is impossible not to when he was heading the first resistance against Voldemort."
Severus hissed at the mention of the Dark Lord's name. "Don't say his name!"
Both Holmes and Watson stared at him.
"Sorry, Snape," said Watson, "Never thought you'd have a problem."
"Oh, for god's sakes, it's just a name," Holmes groused.
"We don't know what magic can do when you even say the name," Watson pointed out. "Either way it's rude. Let's err on the side of caution, shall we?"
"Dull," Holmes huffed. "Why bother when he is virtually dead if not properly so?"
"I'm not chancing it until I'm convinced he's completely and utterly dead," Watson retorted. "Now something tells me you already know who might have done it. You keep circling around the 'how' and not on the 'who's'."
"It's obvious, surely?" said Holmes. "It's Lucius Malfoy."
"And here I thought you were being objective and reasonable enough to at least consider your child as an unwitting agent when you mentioned the Imperius Curse," Severus drawled.
"Oh, get your head out of your a-hole, Snape!" Watson growled. "You need to know Harry can speak to snakes to use him. The only people in the world who knows Harry can speak to snakes are you, Dumbledore and McGonagall. Dumbledore and McGonagall wouldn't leak that info. I don't think you would either."
"Why not?" asked Severus.
"Dumbledore would've told you not to, and you don't go against him directly," replied Watson. "You're not above dropping hints, mind, but when you hit people, you make sure no one can't hit back when you break their face."
Severus felt his lips curling into a smirk at Watson's highly accurate assessment of his philosophy of attack.
"And bigotry always has its foundations in lifting one's self-worth at the expense of others," said Holmes. "Not Harry's style. You're far more likely to see him indulge in moral superiority than this. So that rules out the possibility of Harry as the direct agent."
Severus smirk widened. He didn't think Holmes would share his assessment of Potter's character.
"Yes, Harry is a very moral person, unlike you two bastards," grumbled Watson, looking mostly exasperated, and yet still fond. "So why do you think it is Lucius Malfoy, Sherlock? Not that I don't think he's incapable of it, but I thought he likes his prestige too much to actually try something this big, blatant and obvious."
"Yes, Holmes, do tell us why you think Lucius Malfoy would potentially expose his precious son to danger by unleashing a Basilisk in Hogwarts," drawled Severus. "After all, a Basilisk doesn't actually recognise whether a wizard is a pure-blood or not."
"From that alone you can tell Lucius Malfoy didn't know it was a Basilisk that would be unleashed," said Holmes. "He probably laid his confidence on the fact the 'Heir of Slytherin' would not harm anyone in his own house. So far his confidence has been proven true. The first year victim was a Muggle-born Gryffindor, I believe?"
Severus nodded curtly.
"An intelligent agent, then," Holmes muttered, "One that knows when, who and where to strike. But one that didn't, until this year, activate. Something triggered the agent. The current Magical world is readying for a new Muggle Protection Act. The papers said as much. We know from multiple sources that Lucius Malfoy is against the passing of this Act. His deliberate goading of Arthur Weasley, who is advocating the Act, at Diagon Alley is suspicious. Why such a public display of hostility? His type prefers to secretly put poison in a well he knows his enemy uses."
"Maybe because he knew it would get away with it?" said Watson. "He was in for the humiliation, remember."
"He can do that any time he wants, especially in a place where he's unlikely to gain unwanted media attention," snapped Holmes. "If Hogwarts in particular was the place he wanted to target—thus felling both Arthur Weasley and Dumbledore—then he would go to the time and place where he knows Arthur's entire family will be present."
"Which is Diagon Alley, when everyone is out doing school shopping," said Watson, nodding. "Who would suspect a parent out doing the shopping with their kid?"
"Yes, obviously," said Holmes. "And do you recall the way he was clutching—Snape, get out of my head."
Severus stopped his nonverbal attempt at Legilimens. Despite his previous vow to refrain from attempting it again, Severus wanted to see if he could at least view Holmes' past memories like a normal person.
"What's wrong? What do you mean?" asked Watson, looking concerned.
"Snape is highly ambitious mind reader who just tried to read my mind," Holmes snarled.
Watson gaped. "What?"
Severus sighed, aggrieved at Holmes and wary of Watson's reaction. "Couldn't you have at least waited until you could properly use this knowledge against me?"
"It's not my fault you're practically giving yourself away," Holmes retorted. "Every time you read my mind, you slow down my thinking to excruciating levels. If you're want insider information, at least keep up."
Severus felt affronted at the allegation that his brain was slower than Holmes', despite the fact it probably was.
"Hold there right now," Watson interrupted. "Snape, you can read minds?"
Severus nodded warily.
"What the heck are you doing as a school teacher and not the head of intelligence?" Watson exclaimed. "Mind-reading, that's brilliant! I bet it's one of the subtle things you're so good at. How do you do it?"
That was not typical response. Unable to help himself, Severus gave an incredulous look at Holmes. Holmes shook his head minutely. It was as he suspected; even Holmes couldn't understand the existence of John Watson.
"Not now, John," said Holmes. "The important thing is: Therein lies the gap in my memory. I remember thinking Lucius Malfoy's behaviour was suspicious, but I don't have any memory of observing his suspicious behaviour."
"And there's no way you would have observed nothing," said Watson. "You bent down to check Ginny's Cauldron, I remember, probably to see if he planted something in there. But you forgot because of that spell. Either way, you didn't forget thinking Lucius Malfoy was suspicious because the memory charm didn't cover that."
"It also means the question is not who, but how," said Holmes. "Any evidence that ties the current attacks to Lucius Malfoy are now gone. Fingerprints: overwritten. My eyewitness testimony: gone, never to be taken seriously. The only thing we can do now is finding out how the attacks are taking place."
"Brilliant," said Watson breathlessly. "You don't even let magic-induced amnesia to stop you."
Severus certainly never met a Muggle who worked around memory charms by sheer logic alone. As for Holmes, he waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had pleased him immensely.
"We should check up on Ginny Weasley," said Watson thoughtfully. "When you think about it, she really is an ideal victim for Lucius Malfoy: new student, doesn't know much magic, and Arthur's only baby girl. Double whammy."
Severus recalled the little red-headed girl. He remembered thinking she was oddly withdrawn for a Gryffindor and a Weasley. Even Percy Weasley, for all his pompous seriousness, wasn't withdrawn in class.
"And check if the message was written within reach of a girl her size," said Holmes. "If she was manipulated into writing it, she would've done it by hand."
Ah, that explained why the message was written at such a low height, Severus thought, "Certainly."
"Any advice on recovering Sherlock's memory, Snape?" asked Watson, in the familiar guileless manner of a student asking the expert that made the questions endearing not annoying. "This is your sphere of expertise."
"Well, Watson," said Severus, lips twitching. "You must realise the mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure or tear out individual pieces from. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader. The mind is a complex and many-layered thing. As such, memory recovery is not a simple matter."
"Makes sense," said Watson. "Scientific literature on human cognition and memory say the same thing. You can literally carve out pieces out of a brain, but still retain some function and memories as long as the synapses aren't permanently damaged. Stimulating the brain directly also let people have temporary perfect recall."
So Muggles realised this too. Good. He didn't need to belabour the point then. "The problem with memory charms is that it doesn't remove the memory itself, but it blocks out the memory triggers. Even a person whose memory had been 'modified' can still, with the right combination of enchantments, produce the actual memory for someone else to examine even if they themselves cannot recall them. "
"So it's not the data that's done, it's the access that's been removed," said Watson.
"Correct," said Severus. "Trying to recover access has more often than not wrought more permanent damage. The mind is a delicate thing. Trying to retrieve lost memories without the proper access is like tearing away at the mind itself."
"I understand," Watson sighed. "I just can't stand the idea of someone messing up Sherlock mind, even a little bit."
Holmes had a very unreadable expression on his face as he studied the back of Watson's head intently. Severus resisted the urge to read his mind again.
"So here is where we stand," said Holmes, abruptly turning away. "An unknown agent is attacking the students using a Basilisk. The Basilisk's location is unknown. The agent was triggered into acting via Lucius Malfoy, who planted the trigger. The trigger is a small object, and not something a young student would regard with suspicion otherwise Ginny Weasley, the probable and unwitting carrier, wouldn't bring it to school. The agent has the ability to control people: either by spell or other means. The agent also either has the ability to a control snakes via snake language or has the ability to find and manipulate a person who speaks snake language — in this case, Harry — or knows enough about snake language to mimic it. The former ability may or may not overlap with the latter ability."
Severus nodded. It was nice to have someone who didn't flinch at considering all the dark possibilities, even if it involved their own child.
"I will tell the Headmaster to examine Miss Weasley and Mr. Watson," said Severus. "Unless something happened in the interval, no doubt we will recover the dark object that has been enchanting her—and possibly him."
"Done that," said Watson, raising the perennial phone. "He's calling them up to his office."
Severus nodded in approval. The Muggles' lightning-fast communication methods were their few saving graces.
"If that is all?" asked Severus before preparing to Apparate.
"Just one more thing," said Watson, looking grim. "Do you know of any way I can file a complaint against Lockhart?"
Severus did; several as a matter of fact.
"And be exquisite in your cruelty," Holmes added.
Severus felt an evil smile creep over his face. Oh, he knew just the thing…
-oo00oo-
Harry raced through the halls on the same Sunday morning, his mind churning with information. The bright winter sunlight streaming through the high windows seemed incongruous after the unexpected grim news he received in the last twenty-four hours. He'd checked the Gryffindor Tower, but Ron and Hermione weren't there. As he passed by the Library, Percy Weasley strolled out of it, in very good spirits.
"Oh, hello, Harry," he said, "Excellent flying yesterday, really excellent. Gryffindor has just taken the lead in the House Cup. You earned fifty points!"
"Thanks. Have you seen Ron or Hermione by any chance?"
"Ron said he's going to the Music Room," said Percy, looking a bit amazed, "Never thought he'd get so into it."
Harry had a suspicion Ron had more than just piano practice in mind when he mentioned the Music Room. Harry headed to music chamber after shrugging noncommittally at Percy. There, one of the pianos had a noise-cancelling screen drawn around it. The screens were charmed so sound could go outside-in, but not inside-out, so students could practice without bothering others and not miss the bell.
"It's me," said Harry just outside.
There was a pause. Then one of the curtains drew sideways and Hermione's eye peered through the small opening.
"Harry!" she said. "You gave us such a fright—come in—how's your arm?"
"Fine," said Harry, squeezing into the confines of the screen. The piano had the keyboard cover down, and Harry's microphone receiver was on top of it.
"We'd've come to meet you, but Julia said she was going to wait for Malfoy in the Library," Ron explained as Harry, with difficulty, closed the screen. "We've decided this is the safest place to listen in."
Harry started to tell them about Colin, but Hermione interrupted.
"We already know—we heard Professor McGonagall telling Professor Flitwick this morning. That's why we decided we'd better get going."
"The sooner we get a confession out of Malfoy, the better," snarled Ron. "D'you know what I think? He was in such a foul temper after the Quidditch match, he took it out on Colin."
"We still don't know if it's him or not, but it's possible," said Harry. "There's something else—Dobby came to visit me in the middle of the night."
Ron and Hermione looked up, amazed. Harry started to recount what happened last night…
-oo00oo-
Harry had woken up hours and hours after taking Skele-grow in pitch blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: His arm felt like it was full of splinters. For a second, he thought it was the pain that woke him up. Then, in a thrill of horror, he realised that someone was sponging his forehead in the dark.
"Get off!" he shouted, and then, "Dobby!"
The house-elf's goggling tennis-ball eyes were peering at Harry through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long, pointed nose.
"Harry Potter came back to school," he whispered miserably. "Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn't you heed Dobby? Why didn't Harry Potter go back home when he missed the train?"
Harry heaved himself up on his pillows and pushed Dobby's sponge out of the way.
"What are you doing here? And how did you know I missed the train?"
Dobby's lips trembled and Harry was seized by a sudden suspicion.
"It was you!" he said slowly. "You stopped the barrier from letting me through!"
"Indeed yes, sir," said Dobby, nodding his head vigorously, ears flapping. "Dobby hid and watched for Harry Potter and sealed the gateway. Dobby first tried to make sure only Harry Potter would not go through, but then he sealed the gateway completely because Harry Potter kept trying. Dobby had to iron his hands afterwards—" he showed Harry ten long, bandaged fingers— "but Dobby didn't care, sir, for he thought Harry Potter was safe, and never did Dobby dream that Harry Potter would get to school another way!"
He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his ugly head.
"Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir…"
"You're lucky Lockhart is so incompetent he removes bones instead of mending them," Harry snapped irritably, "because otherwise I might've strangled you."
Dobby smiled weakly.
"Dobby is used to death threats, sir. Dobby gets them five times a day at home."
He blew his nose on a corner of his filthy pillowcase he wore, looking so pathetic that Harry felt sorry for him in spite of himself.
"Why are you wearing that thing, Dobby?" he asked curiously.
"This, sir?" said Dobby, plucking at his pillowcase. "'Tis a mark of the house-elf's enslavement, sir. Dobby can only be freed if his masters present him with clothes, sir. The family is careful not to pass Dobby even a sock, sir, for then he would be free to leave their house forever."
Dobby mopped his bulging eyes. Then the elf said suddenly: "Harry Potter must go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make—"
"Your Bludger?" said Harry, anger rising. "What d'you mean, your Bludger? You made the Bludger try to kill me?"
"Not kill you, sir, never kill you!" said Dobby, shocked. "Dobby wants to save Harry Potter's life! Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain here sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be sent home!"
"Oh, is that all?" said Harry sarcastically. "Good thing I only got off with a broken arm, then. Can you at least tell me why you want me sent home in pieces?"
"Ah, if only Harry Potter knew!" Dobby groaned, more tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. "If he knew what he means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his powers, sir! We house-elfs were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that, sir," he admitted, drying his face on the pillowcase. "But mostly, sir, life has improved for my kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shown like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the Dark Days would never end, sir … And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more—"
Dobby froze, horror-struck, then grabbed Harry's water jug from his bedside table and cracked it over his own head, toppling out of sight. A second later, he crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering, "Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby…"
It took Harry a lot of effort to keep the volley of questions from exploding out of his mouth. Dobby just let two bits of important information slip: there was a Chamber of Secrets, and it had been opened once before. When? How? Who? If Dobby's family were the ones orchestrating the attacks, they would take the precaution of ordering Dobby to never tell it was them. "A house-elf must always keep the family secrets," Dobby had said this past summer. Was that the reason behind the hint? Don't waste his breath asking who, but something else? But what should he be asking if he couldn't ask who?
"Why am I in danger?" asked Harry. "I'm not Muggle-born."
"Ah, sir, ask no more of poor Dobby," stammered the elf, his eyes huge in the dark. "Dark deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter must not be here when they happen—go home, Harry Potter, go home. Harry Potter must not meddle in this, sir, 'tis too dangerous—"
"I can't!" Harry said fiercely. "Half of my friends are Muggle-born! One of my best friends is Muggle-born! They'll be first in line if the Chamber really is opened!"
"Harry Potter risks his own life for his friends!" moaned Dobby in a kind of miserable ecstasy. "So noble! So valiant! But he must save himself, he must, Harry Potter must not—"
Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the passageway outside.
"Dobby must go!" breathed the elf, terrified. There was a loud crack, and he was gone. Harry slumped back into bed, his eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the footsteps drew nearer.
Dumbledore backed into the dormitory, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap, carrying one end of what looked like a statue, Professor McGonagall appearing a second later carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a bed. Harry raised himself a few inches so he could look at the statue on the bed. A ray of moonlight lay across its staring face.
It was Colin Creevey.
-oo00oo-
"…The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?" Hermione said when Harry finished speaking.
"This settles it," said Ron in a triumphant voice. "Lucius Malfoy must've opened the Chamber when he was at school here and now he's told dear old Draco how to do it. It's obvious. Wish Dobby'd told you what kind of monster's in there, though. I want to know how come nobody's noticed it sneaking around the school."
"Maybe it can make itself invisible," said Hermione. "Or maybe it can disguise itself — pretend to be a suit of armour or something — I've read about Chameleon Ghouls—"
"You read too much, Hermione," said Ron.
"It's actually something worse than that," said Harry. "Sherlock just got back to me this morning… he figured out what the monster is."
Ron and Hermione gaped open-mouthed.
"What is it!?"
"It's a Basilisk," Harry answered.
Harry opened up his copy of Fantastic Beast and Where to Find Them to show them the relevant entry:
Basilisk (also known as the King of Serpents)
M.O.M. Classification: XXXXX
The first recorded Basilisk was bred by Herpo the Foul, a Greek Dark wizard and Parselmouth, who discovered after much experimentation that a chicken egg hatched beneath a toad would produce a gigantic serpent possessed of extraordinarily dangerous powers.
The Basilisk is a brilliant green serpent that may reach up to fifty feet in length. The male has a scarlet plume upon its head. It has exceptionally venomous fangs but its most dangerous means of attack is the gaze of its large yellow eyes. Anyone looking directly into these will suffer instant death.
If the food source is sufficient (the Basilisk will eat all mammals and birds and most reptiles), the serpent may attain a very great age. Herpo the Foul's Basilisk is believed to have lived for close on nine hundred years.
The creation of Basilisks has been illegal since medieval times, although the practice is easily concealed by simply removing the chicken egg from beneath the toad when the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures comes to call. However, since Basilisks are uncontrollable except by Parselmouths, they are as dangerous to most Dark wizards as to anybody else, and there have been no recorded sightings of Basilisks in Britain for at least four hundred years.
"A snake monster," Hermione breathed, "Of course."
"How is a fifty-foot long snake moving around Hogwarts undetected?" said Ron fearfully.
"The pipes!" answered Hermione immediately. "Bet you it's moving around through the plumbing!"
"Oh, that's assuring. I guess that means all the toilets are basically death traps," said Ron. Then he looked at Harry. "So Dobby stopped you from getting on the train and broke your arm so you wouldn't have to face a Basilisk, eh?" He shook his head. "You know what, Harry? If he doesn't stop trying to save your life he's going to kill you."
-oo00oo-
Malfoy didn't show up in the library Sunday morning. So Harry, Ron, Hermione and Julia spent the afternoon looking up books that talked about Basilisks.
"Take a look at this," said Hermione, sliding a very old library book across their table. " 'Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it.' That explains why the spiders were acting so weird: they were trying to get away from the castle because they knew there was a Basilisk loose."
"Also explains why Hagrid was putting up rooster cages everywhere," said Ron. They'd seen Hagrid pulling a large trolley full of golden cages holding roosters after lunch. Hagrid was closed-mouthed on what he was doing, but his shifty behaviour told them it was something important he wasn't allowed to talk about.
"Looks like only a Parselmouth can control a Basilisk," said Julia, skimming through several open books in front of her. "So if Malfoy is the heir of Slytherin, then that means he's a Parselmouth."
"Figures Malfoy is a Parselmouth," said Ron with savage satisfaction. "Everyone knows that's a mark of a Dark wizard. You never hear of a decent one who could talk to snakes. They called Slytherin himself serpent-tongue."
Harry said nothing as his friends shared dark mutters. He never told anyone that he could talk to snakes, which he now knew was called Parselmouth and snake-language Parseltongue. Dumbledore had warned him against it on the very first day they met. Since it wasn't something that came up in a casual conversation, Harry never thought much about it — until now.
Parselmouth … a mark of a Dark wizard…
Could he, Harry, be the heir of Slytherin? The very first house the Sorting Hat wanted to put him in was Slytherin. The small voice at his ear had whispered: You could be great you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness. There's no doubt about that. But Harry had no desire to become a great man, so the Sorting Hat, after suggesting Hufflepuff as an alternative, put him in Gryffindor instead. Now that he knew more about Slytherin's dark reputation, Harry couldn't help but feel he had a very close shave. But. Could he be attacking people without even knowing it? Could this be the reason why the Sorting Hat told him it was an impossible business, being good? Not because being good in general was impossible, but because it was impossible for Harry, who was destined to become a Dark wizard no matter how hard he tried?
Oblivious to Harry's internal turmoil, Ron, Hermione and Julia kept on their discussion.
"The simplest way to find out whether Malfoy is a Parselmouth or not is making him talk to a snake," said Hermione matter-of-factly, as if it was as simple a matter as going to the shops to buy laundry detergent. "That means we need a snake for him to talk to."
"I could ask Uncle Jason to get me one," said Julia. "He usually doesn't ask questions the more unusual the gift."
"Shouldn't it be the other way around?" asked Ron.
Julia shook her head. "He wants me to stop living a boring life, so he likes it when I do."
"No offence, but your Uncle sounds a bit mental," said Ron.
"Thank you, I'll give him your compliments," said Julia dryly.
"How long do you think it will take him to send one?" Hermione asked.
"Well, I'll have to make it sound like I want one for Christmas…" Julia began.
"Christmas?" said Ron. "Malfoy could have attacked half of the Muggle-borns in school by then!" But Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously, so he added swiftly. "But it's the best plan we got, so full steam ahead, I say. What do you think, Harry?"
Harry forced himself to think about it. He could, of course, ask Sherlock for a pet snake and Sherlock would send him one immediately. But he didn't think it would be wise to get close to a snake. The day he talked to the Burmese Python in the London zoo, he didn't even realise he was speaking Parseltongue until John snatched him away from the glass display thinking he was having a seizure.
"Sounds like a plan," said Harry. "Speaking of, what are your Christmas holiday plans?"
Ron was telling them Mr. and Mrs. Weasley was planning on travelling to Egypt to visit his brother Bill when Professor McGonagall strode to their table.
"Ah, there you are, Mr. Potter," she said briskly. "Please follow me. The headmaster wishes to speak to you."
"Why?" Harry asked nervously.
"There's no need to be nervous, Mr. Potter, you're not in trouble this time," assured Professor McGonagall, looking slightly amused. "He just wishes to ask you a few questions."
Harry slowly rose from his seat and followed after Professor McGonagall. On their way to the headmaster's office, presumably, he saw Justin Finch-Fletchley in the hall, heading his way. Harry raised his hand to wave hello, but Justin quickly avoided eye-contact and turned to a different direction. Harry continued to march after Professor McGonagall, feeling bewildered and slightly hurt at Justin's behaviour.
Professor McGonagall marched around a corner, and stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle.
"Sherbet Lemon!" she said. Evidently that was the password because the gargoyle suddenly sprang to life and hopped aside as the wall behind it split in two. Harry quickly forgot about his previous bewilderment and hurt and stood amazed. Behind the wall was a spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward, like an escalator. As he and Professor McGonagall stepped onto it, Harry heard the wall thud closed behind them. They rose upwards in circles, higher and higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Harry saw a gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in a shape of a griffin. They stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told Harry to wait and left him there, alone.
Harry looked around. One thing was certain: of all the teachers' offices he'd been to, Dumbledore's was by far the most interesting. It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A number of curious silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby tattered wizard's hat — the Sorting Hat.
Harry hesitated. Would it hurt to put on the Sorting Hat again, just to make sure— absolutely sure— that he was put in the right house? He hemmed and hawed over the thought as he watched the sleeping portraits.
The oak doors opened again, and Professor Flitwick and Ginny Weasley stepped inside.
"Just wait for Professor Dumbledore in here," squeaked Professor Flitwick before closing the door behind him.
Ginny stared at Harry like a deer cornered by a lorry with its high-beams on. Harry shrugged his shoulders to show he had no idea why he was here either. Ginny nodded and slowly walked to join Harry in his wait.
They sat next to each other in a dreadfully awkward silence. Neither of them looked at each other.
"Did you get another cold?" asked Harry, after stealing a side-glance and noting Ginny was still very pale.
"No," said Ginny very quietly.
Harry nodded. "Okay."
They sat in another deeply awkward silence. Then they heard a gagging noise right behind them and turned around.
They weren't alone. Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey. Harry stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise. It looked very old and ill; both of its eyes were dull and, even as Harry watched, a couple more feathers fell off its tail.
Harry was thinking how he was going to explain himself if Dumbledore's pet bird died while he and Ginny were in the office with it, when the bird burst into flames.
Ginny screamed and Harry gasped in shock. Harry looked around in case there was a glass of water, but he didn't see one. In the meantime, the bird had become a fireball. Then it gave one last, loud shriek and next second there was nothing but a smouldering pile of ash on the floor.
The office door opened a third time. Dumbledore came in, looking very sombre.
"Professor," Harry gasped. "Your bird—we couldn't do anything—it just caught fire—"
To Harry's astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.
"About time, too," he said. "He's been looking dreadful for days. I've telling him to get a move on."
He chuckled at Ginny and Harry's stunned faces.
"Fawkes is a Phoenix, Harry, Ginny. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him…"
They looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It looked as ugly as the old one.
"It's a shame you had to see him on his burning day," said Dumbledore as he seated himself behind his desk. "He's really very handsome most of the time, wonderful gold and red plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes: They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets."
In his shock of seeing Fawkes, Harry had forgotten the reason why he was in Dumbledore office, which didn't mean anything because he didn't have a clue since the beginning. He watched nervously as Dumbledore settled into his high chair and nailed Harry with his light-blue, penetrating stare. Harry had a feeling his mind was being scanned.
"I want to assure both of you that I don't think you are responsible for the attacks," said Dumbledore calmly, his fingertip touching. "However, I do wish to speak to you. Harry, do you have anything to tell me? Anything at all?"
Harry pondered the open-ended question. What should he tell Dumbledore? That he thought he could be the heir of Slytherin? That he could be attacking people with a Basilisk without even knowing it, the same way he could never tell if he was speaking Parseltongue? That he feared he was destined to become a dark wizard regardless of his intentions? That even if he was manipulated and obliviated afterwards, there was no way he could tell because, unlike Sherlock, his mind resembled a memory hut where everything was thrown in haphazardly?
"No," said Harry. "There's nothing, Professor…"
Dumbledore held on to his gaze for several heartbeats before moving on to Ginny.
"And you, Ginny? Anything you want me to know? Has anything odd happened to you?"
Ginny stared at Dumbledore for a moment before putting her head down, letting out a tiny, barely audible no. Harry had a feeling her no was the same no he just gave.
Harry left with Ginny shortly after this. He wasn't sure if he felt more assured or troubled, and the shadowed look on Ginny's face told him she felt the same.
-oo00oo-
By Monday morning the news that Colin Creevey had been attacked and was now lying as though dead in the Hospital Wing had spread through the entire school. The air in the Great Hall was thick with rumour and suspicion. All the first-years huddled together in tightly-knit groups at their respective house tables, as through something terrible would happen if they separated. Ginny, who sat next to Colin in Charms, was especially distraught, but Harry thought Fred and George were going the wrong way to cheer her up. They kept tapping her shoulder so she could look up and see them covered in different kinds of hair and boils until Percy, apoplectic with rage, told them he was going to write to Mrs. Weasley.
Harry was staring at his cooling porridge without any appetite when someone cleared his throat.
"Um…" said a first year boy whose name Harry didn't know, looking very nervous. "D'you … do you know anything about…?"
He trailed off, unable to continue. Harry wondered if he should say something or anything as he searched all of the first years' faces. They all looked earnest and fearful, and one of the girls, a Muggle-born if he remembered correctly, looked like she was about to cry.
"I know how the attacks are happening," said Harry carefully, uncertain how much he should say. "I just don't know who."
"Do you know how we can protect ourselves?" asked a first-year girl (not the Muggle-born; name unknown).
"Uh, yeah," said Harry. "Did you see the roosters in the halls?"
The first-years nodded uncertainly.
"As long as you can hear one of those roosters crowing, you're okay," said Harry.
The first-years were staring at each other in bewilderment and awe as hundreds of owls flew into the Great Hall, bearing the morning mail. Harry spotted Hedwig among the browns and greys. Instead of stopping at the Gryffindor table, his snowy owl flew all the way to the head table where the teachers were sitting. Harry wasn't sure how to react when Hedwig dropped the red envelope in her beak on top of Lockhart's head.
Ron gasped and pointed. "That's—"
"What is it?" asked Harry, as he watched Hedwig sail through the air and land neatly next to his porridge bowl. "Hey there, thought you were ignoring me for second."
Hedwig nipped his finger affectionately. Meanwhile, Ron and Neville were staring at the red envelope as though they expected it to explode. Lockhart stared as though he expected the same, and without his usual cheeky smile, he looked feeble and weak-chinned. All the other teachers were pointedly not looking at him.
"What's going on?" asked Harry.
"He—someone sent Lockhart a Howler," said Ron faintly.
Harry looked at Ron's awed face to the red envelope. A lot of people joined him in his staring.
"What's a Howler?" he said.
But Ron's whole attention was fixed on the letter, which was starting to smoke at the edges.
"He needs to open it soon," said Neville in a timid whisper. "It'll be worse if he doesn't. My gran sent me one once, and I ignored it, and—" he gulped— "it was horrible."
Snape, who was sitting two seats down to Lockhart, made a curt comment holding a peculiar expression: like he was trying very hard not to smile. Lockhart stretched out a trembling hand and slit the envelope open. Neville and Ron stuffed their fingers in their ears. A split second later, Harry knew why. Oh boy, did he know why:
"—HOW THE … FECK DID YOU EVEN MANAGE TO REMOVE HARRY'S BONES, I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU CAN STILL FAFF AROUND CALLING YOURSELF A WIZARD, DIDN'T THEY TEACH YOU STAY THE … FECK OUT OF THE WAY UNTIL PROPER MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS TAKES CARE OF INJURIES YOU STUNTED, HALF-WITTED— NO, THAT'S A COMPLIMENT, I TAKE IT BACK, YOU COMPLETELY WITLESS—"
John's yells, a hundred times louder than usual, shook dust from the ceiling, rattled the spoons and plates on the tables, and echoed deafeningly off the walls. People all around the hall were swivelling to see who had received the Howler. Lockhart ducked underneath the table and refused to come out.
"—COULDN'T BELIEVE IT WHEN I HEARD THE NEWS … LOCKHART, YOU FARKING EFF-BUCKET, DON'T YOU REALISE YOU HAVE TO AMPUTATE ARMS THAT DON'T HAVE BONES? WHAT THE F-… WHAT WERE YOU GOING TO DO IF NO ONE COULD … ARGH! I CAN'T DO THIS! SHERLOCK, TAKE OVER!"
Harry was wondering how long John was going to last without resorting to angry army personnel speak. He listened, ears throbbing, as Sherlock's voice at his most menacing filled the halls.
"—I'M ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED, LOCKHART! EVEN ANDERSON AT HIS WORST DIDN'T MANAGE THIS KIND OF STUDPITY! TALKING ABOUT WAGGA WAGGA WEREWOLF IN FINLAND WHEN IT RIGHTFULLY SHOULD BE AUSTRALIA, CLAIMING TO TREAT A YETI ON THE SAME SUMMER YOU SUPPOSEDLY ENCOUNTERED A VAMPIRE IN A DIFFERENT CONTINENT, HOW DID YOU EVEN THINK THIS KIND OF ABSURD TIMELINE CAN WORK WITH YOUR SUBSTANDARD MAGIC ABILITIES, I WOULD'VE BEEN SURPRISED HAD I NOT KNOWN YOUR BRAIN IS A MERE FARCE AND DOESN'T ACTUALLY EXIST…!"
Sherlock went on for several minutes, ripping every story written by Lockhart to shreds with the vitriol he reserved for people like Mr. Anderson and Sergeant Donovan. Then the envelope curled up and burst into flames, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Lockhart emerged from underneath the table looking completely ashen, as though a tidal wave had just passed over him and the effects hadn't hit him fully yet. A few people laughed, clapped even, and gradually a babble of talk broke out again.
Ron turned his face back to the Gryffindor table.
"I figured they'd be angry, but I never thought they'd do this," he said, looking stunned, "Did John really say F-bu…"
"Don't say it," hissed Hermione, looking completely mortified.
Harry pushed his porridge closer and started eating. His insides were light and buoyant. He should've known John and Sherlock would get through eventually.
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: Sherlock and John heavy chapter to compensate the dearth of their presence for two chapters.
I wondered why Hermione didn't just look up Basilisk from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them in Canon until I realised FB doesn't mention the Basilisk flees from the crowing of the rooster. Heh. The things you notice when you're writing fanfic…
John is trying not to swear anymore. It's very hard, as you can tell.