Potterlock – The Chamber of Secrets

Author's Note: Okay, so I've tried to stay as faithful as I could to the original story so far, but I have diverted ever so slightly with this chapter, simply to make it more interesting. Doesn't change it too much so hopefully no lasting damage done :D One thing I will say (to ease my own conscience) – in Chapter Two I wrote Cedric Diggory as being the Hufflepuff Captain, when in actual fact (actual fact being the Harry Potter Wiki), he didn't become Captain until the third book. Apologies for my continuity!

This chapter is dedicated to That Kid With the Long Coat, with whom I've been having the most marvellous conversation while writing this. Hope you found your flow, like I did! They shall skip into the sunset yet!

Chapter Five

In the days following Christmas, neither John nor Sherlock mentioned the moment under the mistletoe, which was partly a relief for John. He was certain that if Sherlock brought up the subject, he'd go the same colour as the Gryffindor socks his mother had given him and just burble. That wasn't to say he didn't revisit it in his own mind, when Sherlock wasn't in the room. That might sound a little dodgy, but it really wasn't – his thoughts were purer than that, at least for now. He just closed his eyes and remembered the feel of Sherlock's warm lips on his hand, the way he'd smiled back at him from the door. Second to receiving his Hogwarts acceptance letter, it was fast becoming one of the most amazing moments of John's short life.

Christmas Day had been a joyous affair – even Harriet had consented to be merry. John wasn't sure what the highest point of the day was. There was Sherlock's face when Mrs. Watson brought through the steaming banquet of food – turkey, crackling, pigs-in-blankets, carrots, peas, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, gravy and various sumptuous puddings to follow. By the time it was over, even Sherlock was nursing a miniature food-bump beneath the material of the new jumper John's parents had bought for him – blue in contrast to John's red. Then there was his confusion at the prospect of wearing the paper crown, followed by the sight of him wearing said crown. Then there was the moment he saw the pile of presents wrapped in blue sparkly paper awaiting him beneath the tree. He looked so innocently happy that John had to resist the urge to grab him and squeeze him to death.

All too soon, it was time to return to school. Sherlock awkwardly thanked John's parents at least a hundred times for their hospitality and generosity. From the look on Mrs. Watson's face, John knew she would have happily adopted him as a second – better-looking – son.

Now that Christmas over, Sherlock started to slip back into his usual persona. While John missed the childish delight he'd seen on his face over the holidays, it was good to see the old Sherlock back again, with his sarky comments and arrogant smirk.

"Well, that was refreshing," he said as they stepped off the Hogwarts Express into the still snow-swirled air. "Thank you, John."

"Anytime," John said with a grin. Sherlock hadn't thought it so refreshing when John had bellowed, "MERRY CHRISTMAS SHERLOCK!" in a manner of which Peeves would be proud on Christmas morning. As John recalled, he'd tried to throttle him before John had distracted him with the bulging stocking at the foot of his camp-bed.

"Good to be back," John said. Harriet's good mood had started to evaporate by the end of the break, and she'd started making snide comments in regards to Sherlock and John's relationship, often when both boys were in the room.

"Yeah," Sherlock said, lifting the collar of his coat and putting his hands in his pockets. "Let's go, I'm freezing."

There was a surge to get into the carriages, and Sherlock and John were resigned to the very last one with Molly and a third year Hufflepuff boy whose name John didn't know. Molly and John chatted about their Christmases while Sherlock stared out of the window at the snowy landscape.

John and Molly parted ways with Sherlock in the Great Hall, as Sherlock needed to take his trunk back to the Ravenclaw Common Room.

"So Sherlock spent Christmas with you?" Molly asked, and John saw that familiar look of wistfulness in her face.

John had done a lot of thinking on the train journey back to Hogsmeade Station. He was quite literally dying to confide in someone – anyone – about his conundrum in regards to his feelings for Sherlock. The only person he could think of who wouldn't judge him or treat him differently afterwards was Molly, but her own – blatantly romantic – feelings for his friend made it impossible.

As they rounded the corner, they almost bumped into Harry and Ron, who were both sporting concerned looks on their faces and carrying what looked like Lockhart's entire selection of books in their arms.

"Hi," John said. "Good Christmas."

"Not bad," Harry said, but Ron gave a badly-concealed snort.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing," Harry said, looking reproachfully at his friend. "We're just off to see Hermione in the Hospital Wing."

Thoughts of Hermione lying comatose on a hospital bed entered his mind, and the blood drained from Molly's face. "Is she. . .?"

"Oh, she's alright," Harry said quickly. "Just a bit. . ."

"Not herself," Ron finished, with a small smirk.

"She wanted us to bring her books," Harry said, looking distastefully at the cover of Holidays with Hags under his nose. "Bit boring for her there all day."

"Right," John said. "Well, see you later."

"Oh God," Molly sighed in relief, hand on her chest, "I thought she—"

"Yeah," John said. "Me too. Though," he said with an ironic snort, "if she was attacked it would direct the accusations away from Harry."

"Oh, don't!" Molly said. "I was almost too nervous to come back."

"Well, there haven't been any attacked since we've been gone," John said in what he hoped was a comforting way. "Maybe the monster's got an eggnog hangover."

Molly laughed despite herself and the two of them came to the Gryffindor Common Room. The Fat Lady was snoozing in her portrait, a good number of sherry bottles still scattered around the plump armchair she was painted in.

"Is the password still the same?" she asked John, who shrugged.

"Felix dies Nativitatis," John said loudly, but she remained firmly asleep. "Apparently not," he sighed.

At that moment, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan came tramping up the stairs, slightly damp from the outside snow and dragging their own trunks behind them.

"Hey guys, d'you know the password?" John asked.

"Felix sit annus novus," Dean said. "Percy just told me downstairs."

"Again with the Latin," John said as the Fat Lady roused grumpily and swung open for the four of them. "Poor old Neville's gonna be in trouble."

Word that Hermione was holed up in the Hospital Wing spread fast, and many of the students, like John, initially assumed the worst and that the heir of Slytherin had struck again. Harry and Ron had to assure at least fifty people in the first week alone that no, she was not Petrified, but they also refused to confess what actually was wrong with her.

"Harry," John said to his housemate one night. It was nearing one in the morning, and the two of them were the last ones left in the Common Room, Sherlock having gone back to Ravenclaw Tower some forty minutes ago. John was adding the finishing touches to his Charms essay, due in the next day, and Harry was battling through two rolls of parchment on goblin rebellions for Professor Binns.

"Mm?" Harry replied, not looking up from his notes, borrowed from Hermione, as usual.

"What is wrong with Hermione?" John asked.

Now Harry did look up. He opened his mouth and John was certain he was going to recite the "I can't possibly say" speech he'd been giving to everyone all week, so he added, "I promise I won't tell anyone, whatever it is. I just want to know."

Harry dropped his quill and rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking exhausted. He ran a hand through his scruffy black hair and stared at John, who subconsciously noted how amazing his green eyes were. In the firelight they almost glowed.

"Okay," he said tiredly. John put down his own quill and leaned forward on the settee. He listened intently as Harry described the adventures he and Ron had had over the Christmas holidays – how they'd disguised themselves with a potion Hermione had brewed in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and infiltrated the Slytherin's Common Room to interrogate Malfoy on being the heir of Slytherin.

"What did he say?" John asked eagerly. He was leaning so fear forward now he was in danger of tumbling into the fire-grate.

"He said he wished he knew who the heir was so he could give them a hand," Harry said glumly. "He doesn't have a clue who it is, either."

"Damn," John said. "He's such a slimy git I was almost certain. . ."

"Yeah, us too," Harry said. "Anyway, Hermione put a cat hair in her glass instead of Millicent Bullstrode's and now she's, well. . . part cat. The potion's not meant for animal transformations."

"Wow," John said, trying to suppress a giggle, but the thought of Hermione's haughty face with fur and cat's ears was too funny not to. He and Harry had a quiet laugh together. John was suddenly struck by a strange and overpowering desire. . . Harry wouldn't laugh. He could tell him, right?

"Harry," he said again.

"I'm listening," Harry said, picking up his notes and leafing through them.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Yeah?"

John's heart was pounding. He double-checked that there wasn't anyone else in the room lurking in a corner – not even a ghost or Peeves. Especially not Peeves – it'd be round the school by breakfast. He took a deep breath.

"I'm gay."

It was a strange feeling – while his stomach was knotted with nerves at what Harry's response would be, it was also something of a relief to admit it to someone other than himself. Harry's head jerked up again and he blinked at John, amazed.

"Blimey," he said. "Wasn't expecting that."

"I'm sorry," John blurted out. "It's just I've been wanting to tell someone for ages but didn't know who and you were just there and I knew you wouldn't laugh well I hoped you wouldn't and it's not like a fancy you or anything – well, just a bit – but no! That's not the point! The point is I. . . um. . ." he ran out of gas and just collapsed against the plump back of the settee, his eye fixed on a softly burning coal that had rolled loose of the dwindling fire.

"It's fine, John," Harry said, amusement in his voice but John could tell it was more at his rambling than what he'd just confessed.

"Is it?" John asked, desperation lacing his voice.

"Of course," Harry said. "I mean, face it – there are far worse things you could be. The heir of Slytherin, for one," he added, with a trace of bitterness.

John wanted to reach over and pat Harry's hand as a gesture of solidarity, but after what he'd just shared with him he worried he might see it as a come-on or something.

"It'll blow over," he said.

"There weren't any attacks over Christmas," Harry said. "If there's one now people will think it's me for sure."

"Maybe there won't be any more," John said, with more hope than confidence that his words were true.

"Yeah," Harry said with the ghost of a smile. "Maybe the monster's settling down to snooze for another fifty years."

"Let's hope so," John said with an awkward smile. He really did hope so, more than he would probably admit. He didn't want anyone – especially Sherlock – to know just how scared the whole situation really made him feel. True, no-one had been killed yet, but what if was the next? Or Molly? John shook his head to rid it of these thoughts, and tried to concentrate on completing his essay. Professor Flitwick would probably make himself quite disagreeable if it wasn't finished by tomorrow.

It was nearing one-twenty when John finally dotted the last 'i' and signed his name at the top of the parchment.

"You off to bed?" Harry asked. John nodded and Harry started collecting his notes. "Hold on a moment, I'll come with you."

John bit his lip to prevent himself making some comment at Harry's choice of words, and tried to distract himself from the thought of sharing a bed with Harry Potter by gathering up his things. Then he started imagining sharing a bed with Sherlock but he'd have had to smash his head on the mantelpiece to distract his mind from that thought.

"John?" Harry asked as he began to ascend the steps to the boys' dormitory. "D'you really fancy me? Just a little bit?"

John went scarlet to the roots of his blond hair.

"U-uhh," he swallowed. He'd forgotten he'd blurted that out in his rambling confession. "Bit. Just a bit. Nothing to worry about."

"Right," Harry said, with a smile that John could only describe as ever so slightly self-satisfied as he started back up the stairs. "Cool."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooo

Under normal circumstances, John would never have thought he'd find himself think of Lockhart as more of a foppish git than he already did, but that was before he walked into the Great Hall on February 14th. The walls were adorned with giant, garish pink flowers and there was confetti falling from the ceiling, which was reflecting a bright blue sky. Lockhart was standing in shocking pink robes (looking every inch like a giant flower himself), waving for silence among the students, whose facial expressions varied from mildly bemused to thoroughly disgusted. Indeed, most of the Slytherin table, and Professor Snape on the teacher's bench, looked as though they'd each been forced to drink a gallon of troll saliva. John sought out Sherlock at the Gryffindor table – his presence there had become almost second-nature to the others, and nobody paid him much mind anymore – and sat down beside him. Sherlock's own expression was one of the utmost distaste and, John was rather amused to see, minor terror.

"Happy Valentine's Day!" Lockhart called above the mutinous grumblings and excitable giggling that peppered the hall.

"What's this all for?" John asked, picking pieces of confetti out of his porridge.

"'Morale booster'," Sherlock said, picking up his fork and spearing a sausage on the end of it. He was moving in a very rigid fashion, like the pieces of pink and white paper fluttering onto his shoulders were venomous spiders. "That's what he called it."

"Morale booster for who?" John snorted, spooning a large dollop of oats into his mouth and trying to ignore Lockhart's idiotic ramblings from the staff table. He saw several dwarfs march into the room, adorned in wings and bearing harps like weapons, what Lockhart dubbed as his "card-carrying cupids!".

"Certainly not them," Dean Thomas, sitting opposite them, smirked, nodding up at the teacher's table. Professor McGonagall looked thoroughly displeased and Snape was continuing to do a good impression of a particularly ugly statue, his upper lip twitching in annoyance.

"It's not so bad," Molly said from a couple seats down the table. She was rather pink in the face and kept glancing at Sherlock. At this moment, John doubted if seven naked supermodels came prancing into the room, Sherlock would have shown the slightest interest.

"It's repulsive," Sherlock said, with such ferocity that the two first-year girls next to him recoiled slightly.

"Yeah, alright, Sherlock," John said, patting his friend on the shoulder. "It's not like it's the Third Reich or anything."

"Whatever that is," Sherlock said.

Sherlock's mood did not improve throughout the day, though that was probably on account of the dwarfs that seemed to dog him between each and every class, even go so far as to burst into Charms and start serenading him in front of everything. His obvious desire to curse the dwarf into an unrecognisable lump was only marred by Professor Flitwick demanding the dwarf leave at once, as he was disrupting the lesson.

"That's it," Sherlock said, reaching inside his robes for his wand as a fifth dwarf approached him on the way to lunch.

"Hold it, hold it," John said, grabbing hold of his arm and steering him quickly into an empty classroom just off the corridor.

"What—?" Sherlock began, but stopped as the dwarfs stomped inside with them and John firmly shut the door.

"Get on with it," he sighed to the dwarf, who twanged his harp menacingly.

Once the dwarf had finished singing, Sherlock and John rejoined the throng of people heading towards the Great Hall.

"If it's gonna happen," John said to Sherlock, "at least no-one saw that one."

"I swear they're targeting me or something," Sherlock said. "Reckon one of the Slytherins set it up? I'd bet it was Moriarty, the villainous little—"

"Sherlock," John sighed as they sat down, John helping himself to chilli con carne and rice. He could see Filch still sulkily sweeping up the remnants of the morning's confetti shower. "It's not the Slytherins. It's just girls who've got a thing for you." Molly probably amongst them, he thought.

"But it's pointless," Sherlock said. "Why can't they just say what they want to to my face, then I can turn them down properly?"

John couldn't help grinning. "Girls don't work like that," he said. "That's what Valentine's Day's about, you know? Sending a secret valentine to the person you like."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock muttered, spooning up a mouthful of mushroom soup. "Love is such a pointless disadvantage. Or any of its minor variants."

John felt his appetite rapidly fade, to be replaced by what felt like a rock in the pit of his stomach.

"You really think so?" he asked, trying to keep his voice normal.

"Of course," Sherlock said. "It gets in the way of more important things."

"Like what?"

"Intelligence," Sherlock said, tapping the side of his head with one finger. "Deduction."

There was a brief moment of silence, in which John absentmindedly pushed his food from one side of the plate to the other.

"It's not bad for everyone," he said quietly after a few minutes.

"Well, if you've got the mental vacancy to accommodate it," Sherlock shrugged. "Like most of the girls here, it seems."

John started to feel angry. Sherlock's blatant disregard for love went against everything he'd ever felt and known. To talk about love or even just liking someone like it was nothing more than an inconvenience, or a disability to be overcome. That moment they'd shared under the mistletoe at Christmas – it had really meant absolutely nothing to him. He was just acting according to tradition, not because he'd actually felt anything. Not even an ounce of anything resembling an emotion. It sometimes seemed like Sherlock knew nothing except anger, secrecy and the occasional burst of victory. Everything was just a challenge to conquer, a puzzle to solve. He was cold, all trace of that joyful boy he'd seen at Christmas gone, overshadowed by this stupid holiday, manipulated by Lockhart to make a mockery of everything love really was – what John really felt towards him. Why couldn't he have fallen for someone normal? This solidified any question John may have had regarding Sherlock's reaction if he ever confessed his feelings – cool, calm, plain and simple shoot-down. Right out of the sky. Well, John wasn't going to be made a fool of. As long as he lived, Sherlock Holmes would never know John's true feelings for him. Ever.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooo

Once the hideous charade of Valentine's Day was over, term started to flit by fairly quickly. Before they knew it, it was Easter, and the second-years were obliged to decide which topics they would be taking upon going up to year three in their magical education. Sherlock didn't take much time in signing up for Arithmancy and the Study of Ancient Runes. Being as smart as he was, the teachers were a little surprised he chose only two subjects, but John knew better. From what he'd heard, Hermione (who was long-since returned from the Hospital Wing, de-furred and tailless) had signed up for every subject available, but Sherlock wasn't that dedicated. He'd use every ounce of his extensive knowledge on a topic that interested him, or he felt was worth his time and brainpower, but if he deemed a subject superfluous (like Astronomy, for example), he'd not waste a single inch of mind-space on it. He laughed openly at John's deliberation on the subject of Divination, saying he may as well take a pursue a career in professional Make-Believe.

It took John longer to decide on his subjects. Arithmancy sounded horrifically difficult, and he'd never been much good as foreign languages, so Ancient Runes was out. He'd always considered fortune-telling to be a load of tosh, so even without Sherlock's snide comments he wasn't keen on that. In the end, he settled on Care of Magical Creatures and Muggle Studies, on the logic that animals were cool and he knew pretty much everything about Muggles anyway, having lived as one for the first eleven years of his life, and so would at least be good at one subject. He overheard Ron saying he'd give up Defence if he could, since it was about as much good as a wet sock in winter the way Lockhart taught it, and John was inclined to agree. Sherlock had said there was a rumour going around that the job was jinxed, as no teacher had lasted more than a year in the position, so John was holding out hope that the trend would continue with Lockhart's reign.

"Is it possible to club someone to death with a textbook and make it look like an accident?" John asked Sherlock after a particularly pointless Defence lesson, where Lockhart had bullied Harry into acting as a yeti he'd supposedly defeated in the Alps.

"I'd speak out at your trial," Sherlock assured him.

The whole school was starting to buzz with tentative excitement at the Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff Quidditch match fast approaching. Considering everything that had happened that year, a good game would surely prove more of a morale booster than any stupid celebration Lockhart could inflict upon them. Oliver Wood was drilling the team members in practice pretty much every day, but Harry said he was starting to feel more hopeful about the match than he had been before. The weather was better, and Hufflepuff weren't exactly the most formidable of opponents.

In the days following Valentine's Day, there had been a little static between John and Sherlock, but thankfully the latter merely presumed John to be annoyed at his Scrooge-ish attitude towards love, rather than any underlying feelings he might have. They'd made up relatively quickly, and John's resolve to cure himself of his fruitless feelings for Sherlock was stronger than ever. Whenever any thought of the kind arose, he pushed it right to the back of his mind and thought about something – anything – else. Okay, so it might now have been the most healthy exercise, but it was better than the alternative.

He'd been spending more time with Molly too. Judging by some small things she said, he had a tiny suspicion she knew exactly what was wrong with him – and what had sparked his annoyance with Sherlock – but if she did she didn't say so outright, and John was thankful. She'd chosen the same third-year subjects that he had, which gladdened him – at least he'd have someone to talk to. She was especially looking forward to Care of Magical Creatures, under the hope that they'd be working with unicorns as part of the curriculum. John was rather interested in the idea of dragons, though he doubted they'd get to handle a real one in class, considering they were far too big and dangerous to be poked and studied by a group of thirteen year olds.

The day of the Quidditch match dawned bright and breezy, and the team was looking in relatively high spirits as they breakfasted in the Great Hall.

"Good luck, Harry," John and Molly said as they passed, and Harry gave them a grateful, if slightly distracted, grin.

"Great conditions," John said cheerily as they made their way to the stadium. They were just about to start climbing the steps for the top seats, when Molly stopped.

"Oh no," she said, "I left my flag on the breakfast table."

"Better hurry up!" John called after her as she hurried off back to the castle. "We'll be on the top level!"

"Why does she need a flag?" Sherlock asked as they ascended the stairs.

"To support Gryffindor," John explained. "House pride, you know?"

"Not really," Sherlock said. Having entirely forgotten that he'd actually enjoyed the last game, he was in a sullen mood after John had forced him to watch this match.

"Yeah, well you're not exactly a steadfast Ravenclaw," John snorted as they sidled along the row to some empty seats. John placed his scarf on the seat beside him for when Molly arrived. "Exactly how much time have you spent in your Common Room this year? Or on your House table?"

"Okay, fine," Sherlock said with a small smile. On the pitch, Madam Hooch had just release the balls, and John saw Harry mouth his broom, ready to take-off. Then, he saw Professor McGonagall marching onto the turf, holding a large purple megaphone.

"This match has been cancelled."

There was an outcry of disappointment from the stadium and Oliver Wood was protesting furiously. Professor McGonagall ignored him and continued, "All students are to make their way back to the House Common Rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give them further information. As quickly as you can, please."

The people around John were grumbling and resignedly shifting down the lines to the exits, while John's heart felt like it had just dropped into his shoes. The only explanation for this could be that there had been another attack – and Molly still hadn't returned. He scrambled as quickly as he could down the row, not caring who he pushed aside or that Sherlock was calling his name.

Please, please let her be okay, he begged to no-one in particular. He reached the bottom of the staircase just in time to see McGonagall leading Harry and Ron away from the crowd back to the castle. Hermione was not with them.

"Professor!" he called after her, and she paused, turning to look at him. "Professor!" he gasped when he'd caught up to them. "Molly! Please, Molly Hooper – is she—?"

Professor McGonagall gave him an uncharacteristically pitying look, and suggested he come with her, Harry and Ron to the Hospital Wing.

Oh no, was all John could think, his mind turning numb as they climbed the staircase to the hospital.

"This will be a bit of a shock," said Professor McGonagall gently. "There's been an attack," she looked at each of them in turn. "Another triple attack."

She pushed the door open and the four of them walked down the long, white-tiled aisle, to where three statuesque girls were lying on beds. One was a Ravenclaw with curly hair John didn't know, one was Hermione Granger (Ron gave a despairing groan) and the third was—

Molly's face was fixed in an expression of shock and horror, her long brown hair splayed out over the pillow, her Gryffindor flag still clutched in her rigidly closed fingers. John's stomach plummeted. He'd have never thought that she would become a victim of the monster – or that the heir of Slytherin would lash out in such an excessive manner. Three in one go? It was just. . . unfair. He reached out and closed his hand around Molly's clenched fist. She felt like a mannequin – hard and cold. Then he felt a set of reassuring fingers squeeze his shoulder and turned his head to see Sherlock's expressive eyes staring down at him. He looked sadly at Molly's comatose form, and John thought his heart might burst and sadness and love – both battling for primary position.

"I will escort you back to Gryffindor Tower," said Professor McGonagall. She didn't seem to object to Sherlock accompanying them. "I need to address the students in any case."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooo

Now that all students were forbidden to leave their Houses after six o'clock, and all lesson transitions were being monitors by teachers, it had grown rather difficult for John and Sherlock to spend time together. Professor McGonagall said that, in light of the security measures they were having to take, it would be best if Sherlock remained in his appointed Common Room. John suspected that Sherlock enjoyed this new arrangement as much as he did. Now they only saw each other in the lessons their Houses shared, and at mealtimes. There was no reason to prevent Sherlock was joining the Gryffindor table there, so at least that didn't change. John felt miserable at the thought of poor Molly lying there in the Hospital Wing, but all students had been forbidden from visiting the victims in case the heir of Slytherin wanted to finish them off. This didn't just frustrate John – Harry and Ron were also unable to see Hermione.

Then Dumbledore was gone.

Professor McGonagall, as Deputy Headmistress, had taken up his place as runner of the school, but the fear that had settled on the students had morphed into real panic. Most people were convinced that now Dumbledore was gone, the attacks would just increase. Draco Malfoy, however, and another choice group of Slytherins (including Crabbe, Goyle and Moriarty), seemed thoroughly satisfied by Dumbledore's dismissal, which solidified the rumours flying around that Malfoy's father was the one who had eventually given the Headmaster the boot. Every time he saw Malfoy's smug face, John was struck by a boiling desire to smash it very hard with the nearest heavy object to hand – be it textbook, suit of armour or passing first-year.

The icing on the sodding cake was that Lockhart seemed wholeheartedly convinced that all danger was now passed, Hagrid having now been placed under arrest by the Minister for Magic himself. John heard on the grapevine that it had something to do with Hagrid's past record, and the reason he was expelled in his third year at Hogwarts. Most days, both Harry and Ron (and pretty much every other male member of Gryffindor tower) looked like nothing would cause them more pleasure than for Lockhart to befall some accident that would ensure the one-year Defence jinx lived up to its reputation.

The one upside in the whole affair was that nobody was suspected Harry as the heir of Slytherin anymore. It sickened John to think that it had taken one of Harry's best friend being attacked to convince everyone of this, but it was still good to see Ernie Macmillan admitting his ignorance in Herbology one day.

"You don't think it's Hagrid, do you?" John asked Sherlock one afternoon in Charms.

"No," Sherlock said. "Whoever's doing this would have to be cruel and calculating. Hagrid couldn't harm a fly. Plus I don't see him as a Muggle-born hater – Granger's been visiting him with Potter and Weasley since we first got here. No, the Minister's just taken him because I wants to be seen doing something in response to the attacks. His record is against him but I looked into that case when he was expelled – there was no viable evidence that the monster he was hiding ever killed anyone. From what the reports say it was an acromantula he was hiding, but there weren't any marks found on the girl who died. Have you seen an acromantula?"

"No."

"Well, they're massive spiders with huge great fangs. Fangs at least leave puncture marks."

John shuddered at the thought. "So how did the girl die?"

"All the report said was that she was unmarked, with a look of fear on her. . . her. . ."

John looked up at Sherlock. He was staring straight ahead of him, brow furrowed and mouth open slightly. John knew that look. Sherlock had just brushed a fragment of knowledge with his fingertips and was desperately trying to reclaim it. After a moment he banged his fist on the table and John knew it had escaped him.

The layer of terror that had descended upon the students reached a peak not two days later. The two boys were being escorting at the head of a large group by Percy Weasley to the Great Hall for lunch, when a resonating voice echoed through the passage: "All students return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please."

The word that Ginny Weasley had been snatched by the monster and taken into the Chamber of Secret itself was probably the worst announced in the school since Voldemort's hey-day, John reckoned. Professor McGonagall's face was graver than John had ever seen her, and there was now absolutely no doubt that the school would close. John felt hollow inside. The thought of returning to the Muggle word, now that he'd known the magic one, was difficult to comprehend. No more feasts, no more Quidditch games, and he wouldn't see Sherlock every day. That hit him hardest.

At some point in the evening, he vaguely registered Harry and Ron leaving the Common Room. Everyone else was too miserable to notice or protest against their departure, and Percy had shut himself away in his dormitory, unable to reprimand them. The Common Room slowly emptied, until John, too wired to sleep, was the only one left. It was then that he felt someone lay a hand on his shoulder and he almost shrieked in surprised.

"Shhh, it's me!" Sherlock agitated voice said, and suddenly appeared as though out of thin air.

"Sh-Sherlock!" John gasped. "What—? How did—?"

"Disillusionment Charm," Sherlock explained, dropping down on the settee beside John. "I've been teaching myself how to do them. I slipped in when Potter and Weasley left."

He was speaking in that tone of voice John new meant he'd finally solved some problem.

"I know what the monster is."

"What?" John gaped. "What is it?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "A basilisk."

"A what?"

"A basilisk, John. Don't you see? It's so simple. I should have thought of it sooner but there was this block in my brain. It happens sometimes but this one was driving me mad. I was flipping through Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and it just leaped out at me."

"Thankfully not literally."

"A basilisk is the King of Serpents. It kills people by looking them in the eye."

"God."

"Yes. It all makes sense, don't you see? The reason nobody died this time is because the basilisk's gaze has always been diluted by one way or another." He started to count off on his fingers. "Filch's cat saw its reflection in the water on the floor, the Creevey kid saw it through his camera lens, Finch-Fletchley saw it through Sir Nicholas—"

"And Nick's a ghost so he couldn't die twice!"

"—and Granger, Clearwater and Molly were found with a mirror next to them. Granger probably figured it out just before they were attacked – she's smart enough to – and warned the other two to be careful when turning corridors. Clearwater looked like the type to carry a mirror around, so they were checking the next corridor and—"

"Bloody hell!"

"You know what clinches it?" Sherlock said.

"What?"

"Think of something that Harry can do that no-one else can't – something that came to light at the Duelling Club."

"Parseltongue!" John said with a gasp. "That's the voice he was hearing that no-one else could!"

"Yes, John, yes!" Sherlock said, almost bouncing up and down with unbridled (if slightly inappropriate) excitement.

"Should we go and tell McGonagall?" John asked, buzzed from Sherlock's eagerness.

"No need," Sherlock said. "If Hermione guessed the monster was a basilisk, I have no doubt she found a way to lead Potter and Weasley to that conclusion as well. It wouldn't surprise me if they were on their way to the Chamber of Secrets right now – they might already be there."

"How do they know where it is?"

"I was thinking about that while I was waiting for the room to clear," Sherlock said. "The record says that she was found dead in a bathroom, which leads me to believe it may be that miserable ghost who lives in the girls' bathroom on the first floor."

"Moaning Myrtle?"

"Yeah, her," Sherlock said. "And Potter's not stupid. If he and Weasley haven't come back by now, I'd bet my boots they've found it. You can probably only open it if you speak Parseltongue."

"Wow!" John said, gazing up at Sherlock with naked admiration, unable to help himself. Sherlock smiled at him and leaned back against the settee, satisfied that his brains had not failed him.

Both John and Sherlock had drifted off to sleep, still on the sofa, when Professor McGonagall came into the Gryffindor Common Room, dressed in a tartan dressing gown and looking thoroughly relieved. They both jerked awake when she closed the portrait door and send John to awake the boys while she roused the girls, for there was to be a celebratory midnight feast in honour of Harry having outfought Lord Voldemort – who, like Sherlock had guessed, was the true heir of Slytherin – for the second year running. The whole school crowded into the Great Hall, where the house-elves had really outdone themselves at the last moment with savoury dishes and the most sumptuous of puddings. John was tucking into a third helping of chocolate pudding when Sherlock nudged him and gestured towards the door. Hermione was running towards Harry and Ron, arms outstretched to hug them, and behind her came Molly.

"Moll!" John grasped his friend in a firm hug and she squeezed back, her smile lighting up her face.

"Welcome back," Sherlock said, and she beamed at him before sitting down beside John to indulge in a large slice of cherry bakewell tart.

John sat back and looked at his two friend in turn. His joy and seeing Molly back and well again was enough to keep him smiling all night, and the way Sherlock kept beaming at him – still high on his intellectual success – was enough to keep him hoping for at least a while longer. It's impossible to ban hope completely when love's concerned, John realised. To do so would be pretty much the same as what Sherlock claimed to do with love – shut it out and refused entry by any means. Sherlock was a strange one, it was true, but he was also human. And no matter how strong they claim to be, every human had to know what it felt like to love someone – it's what it meant to have a heart.

No, he thought as he stared upwards into the star-lit sky, his heart soaring like a comet above them with renewed hope. He wouldn't give up. Not now.

Not ever.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooo

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen – The Prisoner of Azkaban will be uploaded very soon, with the introduction of a character not yet addressed. Hope you enjoyed this part and thank you for reading! K xxx