"I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high."

― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Minotaur

December 28th, 1999

It was so cold outside. Ron ducked his head deeper into his coat, as he shivered and kept walking. The snow was driving against him, kicked up by the biting wind. The cold was coming from deep inside too, and even though it was a very short walk from where he apparated, it felt like a long, miserable journey.

Finally, he pushed past the gate, and walked down the path that led to the little cottage. Warm light was spilling out of the windows onto the snow, and Ron couldn't wait to get in there, and put the day behind him. Through the window, he could see the fireplace roaring, and his bones ached with the cold. He pushed his palm against the door, and it clicked open, the enchantments recognizing his touch.

The fireplace was indeed lit, and Hermione sat in front of it on the couch, wearing one of his baggy, but warm sweaters. Crookshanks dozed quietly on her lap, and she was stroking him, absentmindedly staring into the fire.

Ron shrugged off his heavy coat, and went to sit next to her. She smiled in greeting. Digging her wand out from underneath her, Hermione flicked it into the direction of the kitchen. A steaming mug gently glided over to Ron.

She always made him hot chocolate when he came back from visiting Azkaban. He was grateful. It eased the the hollow feeling in his stomach considerably. Taking sips from the mug, Ron sat back into the couch, and stared into the merrily crackling fire. They sat like that in silence for long minutes, while the wind howled outside, and knocked against their little cottage.

Ron never knew how to start these conversations. It was always bad news these days, and he was rubbish at delivering them gently. If it were up to him, he would just sit here in silence like this for hours, letting the fire and chocolate gradually warm him back up. It was three more days till New Year's, and that was a cheerful thought he'd been clinging too all day.

Crookshanks woke up, and stretched himself on Hermione's lap. He lazily made his way over to Ron, and bumped his rather large, squashed head against Ron's hand. Ron obligingly scratched him behind the ears. He'd really grown a fondness for the cat. It always seemed to know when he was down. Crookshanks settled himself on Ron's lap, and went back to sleep. Lazy bugger, Ron thought affectionately.

Hermione looked over, and decided to break the silence.

"So, what happened?" She asked, quietly.

Ron sighed, and leaned further back into the couch. He took his time answering, since he didn't really know what to say.

"Nothing." He answered, simply.

Hermione was looking at him with narrowed eyes.

"Nothing, Ron? What do you mean 'nothing?' What did he do, did he say..." She started, but Ron cut her off.

"Nothing, Hermione! Literally nothing! I sat there for hours and tried to talk to the git, and he didn't say a word the entire time. He just sat there and looked at me, as though wondering what bloody business I had to be there in the first place!" It wasn't Hermione's fault, he knew. He really shouldn't yell at her, since she was just as upset and angry as he was. But he was always so frustrated, he could barely keep that aggressive edge of himself in check.

Looking over at Hermione, he saw her eyes begin to water, and he immediately felt bad.

"Sorry." He said quietly. She waved away the apology with her hand. Pulling her knees up, she wrapped her arms around them, curling into herself. She buried her face into her knees, and started trembling slightly. Ron put his hand on her back, and gently rubbed between her shoulder blades.

They sat like that, with Ron bitterly looking into the fire, and Hermione pretending that she wasn't sobbing into her knees. After long minutes, she lifted her head again.

"What are we supposed to do, Ron?" She whispered through her watery tone. And Ron had no idea. He sat next to her, offering nothing except his silent sympathy. In truth, he didn't know if there was anything else they could do. And at this point, Ron and Hermione were the only ones trying.

"I was so sure, I was so sure that he couldn't..." Hermione spoke up again.

They were both sure, when it happened in May. They were both so confident that the boy they had known as their best friend for so long, was innocent. It was another adventure, another mystery for them to solve. It seemed quite fitting, since Harry had saved their skins so many times, that now they got a chance to save his.

He still remembered that evening very clearly. It was May 2nd, and there was great ball in the ministry. Ron was set to graduate from auror's training in a few weeks, and his future boss had made a not-so-subtle suggestion that he should come. He had went there with Hermione, but eventually they broke apart, and she went to chat with her co-workers on the other side of the ball room.

That's when Harry showed up. Ron was very surprised to see him, considering that Harry Potter had spent the last two years not leaving the sanctuary of Grimmauld Place. He crept around the edge of the giant room, probably trying not to draw attention to himself, Ron thought. He came over, as soon as he'd seen Ron, and they exchanged a short greeting.

Harry had seemed clear-headed, more coherent than Ron had seen him since the war. Not that they'd seen much of each other. Whenever him and Hermione went to visit, Kreacher was there saying that his master wasn't taking visitors. Ron had gotten angry once, and tried to rush past the aged elf, but was thrown back by the powerful elf magic that Kreacher had unfortunately possessed. They did see him several times, when the elf didn't stop them. But it was useless. Harry hardly noticed they were there. His eyes stared off, and he kept playing with a little black stone, spinning it in his hand. Mostly, it seemed like he could barely hear them.

Which is why Ron was stunned when Harry approached him, and seemed so normal that evening. Harry asked Ron about his auror training, and if they'd made any headway into capturing the remaining death eaters. Ron replied that there wasn't anything new. There was only four remaining, on the loose, which wasn't much considering Voldemort's inner circle consisted of almost thirty people. The names of the last elusive four had been pinned to most of the auror's desks on a severe, official parchment:

Greyback, Fenrir

Lestrange, Rodolphus

Rookwood, Augustus

Snape, Severus

Ron privately thought that those four were probably going to remain free for a very long time. If they were clever at all, they'd clear out of the country and never be seen again. The only intelligence the auror's had on them was that at least three of them they were moving in a group. Sticking together for protection, probably.

He recited their names to Harry, and he scowled.

"Snape! That snake bastard deserves to die." Harry growled. Ron was a little taken aback by Harry's aggressive tone. Suddenly, he put his arm on Ron's shoulder, and looked in his eyes.

"I don't care about the others, but make sure you catch Snape. For me, Ron." He had fierce, determined expression, as he said this. Then, without so much as a goodbye, Harry walked away. Ron didn't follow him, and simply stood there, completely taken by surprise. He remembered a twinge of hope, that maybe his best friend had finally come back to his former self.

Those hopes dashed to pieces that very evening, when the ballroom filled with screams, and people running towards the exits. Ron wasn't one of the aurors that went after Harry. He was still a trainee, and his commander had simply sent him home.

Hermione came home that night with him, and they'd spent all night trying to figure out what had just happened. They had been so quick to assume that Harry couldn't have possibly done it.

Hermione pointed out so many details that seemed to suggest it wasn't their Harry that was responsible. Their Harry couldn't do something like this, not in a million years.

They spent so many sleepless nights together, trying to figure it out. Hermione thought it was obvious that it must have been someone using Polyjuice potion. They'd drawn up diagrams of how the perpetrator wearing Harry's face fled the ministry. They'd collected everyone's testimony of that evening. Together, they'd worked so hard on building a solid case for Harry.

The wizarding world had mostly already turned on their savior. Ron was sick with the lot of them. Hermione turned a furious shade of pink whenever she read the Prophet. Only a few witches and wizards (besides Ron and Hermione) believed that Potter could be innocent. But they'd worked tirelessly. It's what Harry would have done for them.

A month later, at Harry's trial, Ron had begun to lose hope. Hermione was beside herself afterward. She stormed and raged about how poorly they were treating him, after he saved all their arses. Ron never said anything, but it was then that he'd begun to suspect that maybe Harry really was responsible. Well, responsible in the loosest sense of the word. It should have been clear to anyone that he wasn't in control of himself.

Ron shoved all those thoughts away, and worked with Hermione tracing and retracing Harry's steps that night. After the trial, it was just the two of them, digging for answers, trying to get Harry out of Azkaban. But month after month, it was easy to lose hope in someone who didn't even bother to defend himself. Harry practically admitted that he did what he was being accused of, at his trial. Not coherently, or very clearly, but it was enough for the judges.

Of course Hermione said that it was obvious he didn't know what he was talking about. He'd been out of touch, locking himself up at Grimmauld Place for so long that he had lost track of what was real. And the dementors must have been affecting him, she said. But now, almost eight months later, it was harder and harder to deny what was right in front of them.

If the stupid git bothered to once, only once, defend himself, Ron would know it wasn't him. He and Hermione would keep going for years if they had to, trying to prove his innocence. Hell, Ron would bust him right out of Azkaban, if he had to. Every time Ron visited him, he hoped it would be the day that Harry finally came back and said 'It wasn't me Ron.' But he never did, and Ron had had just about enough. So he and Hermione sat side by side on the couch, and both thought the same thing.

She had stopped crying now, and had a blank look on her face, still staring into the fire.

Crookshanks still dozed happily on Ron's lap, unaware of what was going on around him.

"Do you think maybe we were so convinced..." Hermione started talking, but paused, collecting herself.

"We were so convinced because we still feel guilty?" She finished, sadly. Ron scowled. She had no right to feel guilty. It was his decision, that she merely followed. It was his fuck-up, his big mistake, and he dragged her into it. But he knew she did feel guilty, and he felt it too. No matter how hard they tried to fix their mistake, they couldn't. Then, after the war was over, it was too late.

She was probably right. Wasn't she always? That's why they both tried so hard to prove a man was innocent, even though he never bothered to say he was. They both owed him big time, for breaking their promise.

Ron thought of the world, and what great fucking mess it was. No one ever got what they deserved, good or bad. Harry was rotting in Azkaban, while Rodolphus Lestrange was free, doing god knows what. People who defended the light were left dead, maimed, or their families broken. His own family was shattered by the loss of two siblings. He thought of the Malfoys, snug and happy in their giant manor, because they 'switched sides' in the last minute.

He thought of Teddy robbed of a mother and father, and now his godfather. And in a sick way, that felt horribly familiar. He suddenly got an image of Harry in the shrieking shack, dressed in Azkaban robes, trying to explain to Teddy how he was innocent. Ron thought of Sirius and how unfair it was that he died before being exonerated.

Except Sirius was innocent, and he had never been given a trial before they carted him off to prison. No one bothered to listen to him. Ron felt sure that if Sirius had been on trial, he would explain everything: about Peter, about the secret-keeper being changed, and about their animagus forms.

Harry had been given a trial, and well... Hermione was right. The only reason they kept going was because they both felt guilty at leaving Harry when he needed them most. If Ron was very honest, he hadn't truly believed in Harry's innocence since the trial. They kept trying to look for answers where there were none, because partly it was their fault. Now, maybe it was finally time that he and Hermione admitted this.

They'd moved to the kitchen, where Hermione warmed up some food she'd made hours ago. It wasn't his mother's cooking, but it was good food, so Ron had no right to complain. He was feeling warmer now, the effects of the dementors waning from his bones, and Ron happily dug in.

Hermione sat across from him and watched him with a blank look. Neither of them had said it, but there seemed to be an agreement between them that the adventure was over, the mystery solved. Harry was guilty, and they had both better come to terms with it.

Suddenly, Hermione drew in a big breath. She was getting ready to say something, but couldn't quite figure out how to start. Then, she dove right in.

"We need to talk, Ron." She said, with hollow sound to her voice. Ron motioned his hand for her to start. He had a weird feeling in his stomach, like everything was on an edge, like the universe was holding its breath. Hermione wasn't looking at him now, and her eyes started watering again. Ron hated when she cried. She almost never did, thankfully. He always felt like it was somehow his fault, and it made him feel terrible. He slowed his chewing and looked at her in concern.

"Ron, I...I don't feel the same anymore." She finished sadly, still avoiding eye contact. Oh, Ron thought. Surprisingly, he knew exactly what she was talking about. She didn't feel the same way about him anymore.

"I think I'm going to spend the night at my mum's place tonight." She said with finality, though her voice was cracking. Ron slowly put his fork down.

Ron wanted to be angry, he wanted to yell at her, to shout 'You belong with me! We belong together, we always have!'

But he felt no anger rising within him, only resignation. If he was very honest, he wasn't as upset as he should be, because he hadn't felt the same either. Not in ages. The tender feelings he cradled in his chest all through their years of Hogwarts were getting harder and harder to find.

He remembered watching her, a schoolgirl then, growing more and more brilliant by the year.

Hogwarts seemed like so long ago now, a forgotten century. Soon it would be, as a new millennium drew on. It felt like there was less, and less between them, as they made their way further from Hogwarts. He was an auror, and she was an Unspeakable. They could barely keep up a conversation, unless it was about how to help their old best friend not be convicted for murder. It felt like the last thing they had in common was Harry's case. Now, there was nothing. Just memories of things they did together. Ron searched, almost desperately, for the feelings he had for her, but he found nothing.

He didn't know how to answer her, or even if she was expecting an answer. He wasn't a touchy-feely bloke. He settled for nodding at her, and also averting his eyes.

"Is that- do you have any thoughts about this?" Hermione asked. It sound like there was a little hope in her voice. Maybe she thought that Ron would rage and tell her that he loved her, and that his life was nothing without her; and Ron would have, two years ago. That's exactly what he would have done. He would have strode over to her, embraced her, and told her how much she meant to him. She didn't mean anything to him anymore, though. Just a girl he went to school with. A good friend maybe, a good ally to have in the ministry...

"I don't feel the same anymore either. So, I understand." Ron said quietly.

With a flick of her wand, some of her things flew neatly into a trunk, and it slammed shut. Hermione said she'd come back later for the rest. It floated behind her, gently knocking into walls. She hugged Ron, telling him that she wanted to stay in touch with him. He hugged her back and promised they would.

Ron moved slowly, dazed by how quickly everything was happening. Crookshanks jumped into Hermione's arms, and meowed sadly in Ron's direction. He felt like a part of his past was dying, leaving him forever, first Harry, now her. There would be nothing left soon of old Ron, the one that was a nervous wreck before a quidditch game, and the one that got jealous when Hermione took Krum to the Yule ball. The war was over, and a millennium was coming. New Year's Eve was just three days away. Everything changed, Ron reasoned.

"Ron," Hermione turned around. She was at the door, already wearing her coat.

"I'm not telling anyone about the books we found at Grimmauld." She said, pointedly looking at him.

"I won't either." Ron replied. Acknowledging his words with a curt nod, Hermione tightened her scarf, and strode out of the door into the winter's evening gloom.

Present Day

After his enlightening adventure in Diagon Alley, Sherlock was returning to Baker Street in unusually high spirits. That is, until he found his flat surprisingly empty. He had so many questions that Potter needed to answer, but the wizard was gone.

His first thought was that the wizard cops, aurors, had collected him. This would be an awful turn of event, as he needed Harry, or else it would be difficult for him to continue making contact with the magical world. He had also promised Harry a safe place to stay.

Sherlock did not know exactly what would happen to him if he were captured. He could pick up a few clues from his discussions with Harry, and it didn't sound good. Sherlock wasn't sure whether wizards had capital punishment, but it wouldn't be surprising considering many of their customs had not changed since the middle ages.

His heart started pounding, and his mouth went completely dry. Thick, suffocating panic was settling into Sherlock's brain, making it hard to think, hard to reason. His mind decided to produce images of Harry chained up in a government cell, being beaten within an inch of his life.

That couldn't happen, cried Sherlock inwardly. He wouldn't let that happen.

Sherlock's brain reflected on his relative powerlessness in the situation. The wizard authorities wouldn't listen to him, since he wasn't even supposed to know about their world. They might listen to Mycroft, but even that was a slim chance, really. It didn't matter, he resolutely told himself. He would do anything, anything at all in his power to save his… wizard. He would rant and rave about the magical world's existence, break their secrecy, and bring the world crashing around their stupid, magical ears. His brain decided to send him another preposterous picture: Sherlock swooping in to rescue a pale wizard, with dark hair, and huge pleading eyes...

Sherlock physically flinched at the thought. He wasn't some bloody Byronic hero, coming to rescue a damsel in distress. He was a detective, so now he needed to do detective work.

Sherlock tried look at his abandoned living room with a clinical detachment, but it was hard seeing past his panic. Why was there a Chemistry textbook laying on the floor? Why were the chairs around their little table moved out? Why was there a tea set out. There was dregs of tea left in one, and a spoon peculiarly placed in the saucer...John.

John was definitely here, Sherlock concluded. This was good, his friend wouldn't let anything happen to Harry. His brain spun back to a few days prior when he requested that the doctor befriend the Harry, in order to make him a permanent addition to 221B. Yes, Sherlock thought, John must have taken him somewhere. Harry wasn't taken into custody in some deep vault of the magical people's prison system, and he wasn't in any danger.

Still trembling slightly, Sherlock sat in his armchair. He steepled his long fingers together and looked out into the kitchen, though not really seeing anything. His mind was reflecting on what had just occurred, solely within itself it seems. His panic had only lasted less than a minute, but it had felt like Sherlock went on a long journey, deep to some part of his brain that was not normally examined. Why had he reacted? The panic was receding now, and Sherlock took steady rhythmic breaths to return his heartbeat to normal. Relief settled in its place, along with shame at being so easily ruffled, and stupidly coming to false conclusions, and an odd lingering sweetness, which Sherlock couldn't identify.

Breaking his meditative pose, he quickly took out his cell, and composed a text to John, his fingers gliding quickly over the keys. He slipped it back into his pocket, and continued to stare out into space, while his mind was turning over and over. He thought about Hermione, and her story, about John and Mary, about Janine, and most of all, about the wizard that was living across the hall from him.

He sat like that for long hours, only moving once to check John's reply on his phone. His mind trekked deeper and deeper within itself. His memory palace, incidentally, really did resemble a house. It had rooms, shelves, and stairs, where things that were useful were stored meticulously, in an ordered scientific fashion.

His memory palace, he had told John, was simply a mnemonic device. Method of loci, as the Greeks called it. It could be anything; an apartment or a street, or a map. John once commented that it was very telling that Sherlock decided to call it a palace.

The thing that no one really knew, was that the palace was not there solely for the ease of remembering important data. His palace was orderly, logical, and perfect; but it had been built over something that was its exact opposite. Underneath Sherlock's mind house, was a labyrinth.

It was the great dualism of architectural theory: the labyrinth and the pyramid. Order above, chaos below. Both complementary and reflective of each other. Two constructs, rising and falling from the horizon, that are reflections and antonyms of each other.

Sherlock had not strayed into his labyrinth casually. Indeed, he mostly avoided it. Nothing in his labyrinth was pertinent to his work, so nothing there was really useful. If anything, the labyrinth was sort of a garbage dump. Things he couldn't delete, yet didn't want laying around in his house. Things that weren't degradable, things he couldn't forget, all went into the maze.

Sherlock was never a literature buff, but he did not oversee the significance of having a labyrinth hide his secrets. There was no bull-headed monster inside, but there was a part of him locked away from the sunshine above.

The detective sat there and ruminate on old Greek myths and his own psyche. His eyes fluttered shut every now and again, and would flicker open again. He wasn't really using them. He was lost entirely in the constructs that were in his head. The noises from the street, from the city, the neighbor's telly, were all a far-off tide that Sherlock could place no meaning behind. All of sensations were far away, and unnoticeable, except one. Some noise that kept growing louder and louder, demanding attention.

"...Sherlock!" Oh, that was John's voice. Sherlock snapped back into the present, his eyes blinking away the darkness of the labyrinth. He found John standing above him, with his jacket still on. He wasn't sticking around, then. Behind him was Harry, who was looking at Sherlock with curiosity, and a slight lopsided smile. There was a light aroma of beer coming from John, and Sherlock's mind quickly constructed the events of the evening. Sherlock thought he might as well let them know that he was here with them now.

"Evening." He said dispassionately. The deep corners of his mind, which he had excavated, were spilling over. He needed time to put himself right again. He closed his eyes, and began to stuff the thoughts and memories back where they belonged: into his underground chamber. Thankfully, John took this time to say good evening to Harry then Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock, who was aware enough to reply with a quick good-bye.

He didn't particularly want to, but he supposed he ought to thank John for his efforts. Sherlock did ask him to do this, never mind that the detective almost had a heart attack because John decided to bring Harry along for a pint.

Sherlock was nearly done with his mental clean-up when he realized that Harry had taken a seat opposite him, and was observing him with the same lopsided curiosity. Sherlock looked right back at him, not really sure of what he should say, if anything.

"I've thought about what you asked me..." started Harry, suddenly.

"Oh?"

"About assisting you, in your work." Sherlock's eyebrows elevated themselves, seemingly of their own volition.

"I'm not sure how much help I'd be. I know next to nothing about muggle laws, or crime scenes or anything. The only things I know about forensics are from crap telly. But..." The wizard seemed to hesitate, "if you really want me to come with you, I will. I mean, I'm not doing much sitting about the flat, and you are letting me hide here and everything, so..." Sherlock was pleasantly surprised at this. Perhaps John deserved many more thanks. He wondered what conversations they had that spurred this decision.

However, it did sound like Harry was only taking up his offer because he felt like he owed Sherlock something for his little room in 221B. He didn't think John would have framed the argument that way to him. Normally, Sherlock would have no problem getting what's his if the wizard thought it was because he was obligated. For some reason though, this particular situation didn't lay quite right with Sherlock. Harry certainly didn't owe him. The room he allowed him to have was perfectly repaid by his stunning performance of magic, usually on Sherlock's demand. Sherlock decide to voice these thoughts out loud.

"You don't owe me anything."

"You are letting me stay here..." Harry started saying.

"Yes, and you perform any spells I ask you too, without any hesitation. Consider your rent paid in magic, and my insatiable curiosity." Sherlock cut across him. Harry had a slight frown on his face. Fine, if he was going to be difficult about this...

"I do need an assistant, and I think you're quite right. You're not doing much sitting around, trying to bore yourself with stoichiometry." Sherlock motioned to the book, laying next to the armchair. Harry chuckled and flicked his wand at the book. It sprang up, and flew into the shelves, sliding snugly between two other volumes.

It had been several long days since Harry finally agreed to become Sherlock's partner in fighting crime. The detective had been hoping for a case to show up the very next day, maybe even that night, but no such luck. All the cases that Lestrade bothered him with were transparent, boring and obvious. He might have a wizard in tow, but he still did not leave his flat for anything less than a 7.

Sherlock's boredom however, was being kept in check by his ever gracious flatmate. Sherlock asked over and over again for Harry to perform the same spells, charms, and transfigurations.

Harry barely even complained, except once, when Sherlock had him perform the hover charm on every single object within reach. Sherlock recorded all the pertinent data. He was quite happy with his progress in this particular experiment. That is, until Harry revealed that there was actually an incantation for the charm. Apparently, the wizard was able to cast it without saying it aloud. This of course, skewed the data. But Sherlock could be patient, so he quickly grabbed more paper for his clipboard and asked Harry to perform the charm while saying 'wingardium leviosa,' on the same hundred or so objects. In the end, Harry had begun to complain that he might suffer from magical exhaustion if they kept at it.

Harry had also provided a dozen or so magical texts, for Sherlock's perusal. It was a distinctly odd vision, seeing Harry pull out book after book from the same worn knapsack. He supposed he ought to be used to it, by now. Magic, Sherlock thought, might always have a small element of surprise to it.

Sherlock skimmed quickly through Harry's meager library, before starting to study, in earnest, all that was on the pages of each textbook. His favorite magical subject, Sherlock decided, was potions. He was amazed, when reading 1001 Magical Herbs and Fungi, that common plants could be combined in such intricate ways, to produce such amazing effects. Also, potion making required very little magical power. Most of these elixirs could be effortlessly brewed by muggles.

While Sherlock obsessed over potion recipes and ingredient properties, Harry had also begun to read. The wizard quickly abandoned most of the more ponderous tomes that were in Sherlock's possession. Although, once or twice Sherlock did catch him, with a pained expression, trying to make his way through a neurophysiology book.

Not all of the wizard's literary choices were worthy of commendation. One afternoon Sherlock strode into his own living room finding Harry with a novel.

Sherlock glanced at the title.

"Jane Eyre? Ugh!" Really, of all the things he could have picked...

"Well, it was in your book case." Harry answered, defensively.

"Hmph, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson left it there. I wouldn't be caught dead reading that- that romantic drivel." In truth it was Sherlock's, but he would be hard pressed to admit this. The last time he read that novel he was only sixteen. And even though it made an impression on him then, it was totally excusable, as everyone was a special kind of idiot at sixteen.

"I rather like it." Harry answered lightly.

"Do you? What part are you on..." Sherlock craned himself over Harry's armchair to quickly spot the page which was now open. Jane, the silly girl who couldn't make out what was right in front of her nose, was being propositioned by her own cousin, the insane priest.

"I thought she would end up with that Rochester bloke..." Harry muttered to himself.

Unfortunately Sherlock caught it.

"Oh, she does. She marries him." He replied.

"Sherlock, I'm not done reading it!" Harry was now looking up, twisting his neck around to give Sherlock a disapproving glare.

"Well, I've just saved you a few hours. You're welcome." Harry frowned at him, and resolutely went back to reading. Sherlock was not discouraged. He perched himself on the armchair, still looking over Harry, following along the narrative on the page below.

"So, you like this book?" Sherlock asked casually.

"Yes, although I would have liked it much better if I didn't know what was going to happen at the end." Harry pointedly replied.

"Don't you think it's awful, that she marries him? Rochester has been described as a monstrous character. The poor girl deserves better, no?" Sherlock tried to keep his tone as casual and light as possible.

"Better than this St. John psycho." Harry mumbled. His eyes stopped moving across the pages, and he thought about it more.

"Rochester's not that bad. He might be surly, a bit on the rude side, but overall...well she loves him doesn't she?" It occurred to Sherlock that the wizard was now asking him his opinion on the book. Since he definitely didn't have one, Sherlock chose to remain silent.

He was still perched above Harry, looking down at the wizard and the book. It was a peculiar angle, one that revealed a pale sweep of neck, and collarbone. His hair, now cut to a decent length, rested in a disordered way over the back of his neck. Sherlock wondered, in a distracted way, what it would feel like to the touch. Probably soft, because it certainly looked it. Maybe wizard hair was different than muggle hair? He should investigate. Sherlock reached out a hand, imagining vividly what it would feel like to run it through the black mess, tangle in it, grasp it. All for science, of course.

His index finger was millimeters away, when Sherlock suddenly snapped back. Thankfully, the wizard seemed completely oblivious to what was going on behind him. Sherlock quickly jumped off his perch, and strode to his own room, shutting the door behind him. He sat on his bed, and stared suspiciously at the door, as though someone was want to come bursting through it at any minute.

Where had this madness come from? Sherlock felt like he was completely out of the loop in his own brain. Why would he have any business touching the wizard's hair? He was sure it was perfectly normal, and that it was different was a preposterous assumption. Wizard hair was probably exactly like non-wizard hair. They were still the same species, for god's sake.

His mind decided to aggravate him further by playing through the same vivid scenario. Almost involuntarily, Sherlock's limbs arranged themselves, and he lay down on his bed. His hand were locked behind his head, and Sherlock's eyes stared at the ceiling. Slowly, he closed his eyes, and decided to ride out whatever it was his subconscious was trying to communicate.

He saw his hand, in front of him, reaching into black hair, twisting it, then lower, gliding over a neck, then a jaw line. The mess of black hair turned then, and resolved into a face. Harry smiled softly up at him, and leaned into the palm of Sherlock's hand.

There was a slight hum in his head now, and he felt a swooping sensation somewhere around his mid-drift. The dream-Harry was still looking at him, with a question hanging in his eyes.

With his eyes still closed, Sherlock saw the wizard getting up, and he was standing on eye level with Sherlock. His lips moved, saying something inaudible. He seemed to be coming closer, and Sherlock hand was still pressed against the side of the wizard's face. Harry put one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and their faces were inches apart...Sherlock suddenly felt an enormous rush of adrenaline. It felt like he was hanging off a cliff, only one finger still grasping the edge, and he was going to fall, fall down so far, into the abyss below...

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Right away he noticed that there was an elevated temperature in his cheeks, and his breathing had hitched slightly. Well, what in the hell was he supposed to make out of that? Apparently his brain decided that it wanted to pet Potter. Ridiculous. If he wanted to pet something he would have gotten himself a house cat. A wizard, another man, was hardly an appropriate subject to caress.

He sat up, and decided to put the matter from his mind. Or rather, deeper into his mind, down a long tunnel that twisted and turned, where it would silently stay and not bother him. He had his work, and he had cases, and now he had his experiments with magic. Whatever he had just experienced had no room in his life.

Sherlock stayed quietly on his bed, for several minutes. Once he was sure that his mind was once again functioning normally, he returned to the living room. He still had questions about the Incendio charm, and he was hoping Harry could provide answers. This time, Sherlock told himself there would also be limited damage to physical property. He did promise Mrs. Hudson, after all.

A/N: Reviews feed my poor, hungry soul! Like it, don't like it, let me know!