Sherlock did not lower his wand nor did shift his gaze from Irene's face. "What do you mean? Moriarty's the one planning something. Maybe Nevamann too."

"And how do you know that?"

The boy felt the blood drain from his face. The truth was, he had never really had any proof that Moriarty had some grand plan to execute. It was simply his instincts that told him he couldn't trust the boy. "He practically emanates evil," he said, not yet ready to give up on his beliefs.

Irene snorted. "I'm not saying he's not involved, but between the two of them, your friend has far worse motivations."

"What are you talking about?"

"We don't have time to be standing around talking about this right now! You don't have to believe me, just come with me to the center and see for yourself! The longer we wait, the more our chances of stopping whatever this is are slimmed!"

Don't be an idiot don't be an idiot don't be an idiot. The words rang through his head, a sharp reminder-but the issue was, Sherlock was not very good and telling when he was being an idiot or not. He needed John for that. Would the stupid thing be trusting Irene? Or being so blinded by his own prejudices that he let the world as he knew it crumble around him because he refused to stow his pride. Well, when he put it like that…

With a defeated sigh, Sherlock tucked his wand into his pocket. "Do you know where we're going?"

Relief flickered across Irene's face. "Down. But we need to move quickly."

The pair shifted their gaze for a moment as a few bluebirds fluttered past their heads, disappearing into the darkness below.

"Well then. What are we waiting for?" He took a deep breath, and slid off the branch, following the birds into the abyss.

"Okay," I'm getting really nervous. John was shitting his weight anxiously from one foot to another. It had been a good ten minutes, and there was as of yet no sign of Nevamann's "scouts".

"Relax," Mycroft said sternly. "Getting yourself all worked up won't help a thing. I sent a letter to Dumbledore quite anonymously, alerting him to the fact that I have reason to believe someone is plotting something. With due fortune, he'll return swiftly."

"That's counting quite a lot on luck," John said, gritting his teeth. He was quite unsatisfied with the other boy's determined lack of action. "We should send in a scout of our own. Can you do that bird charm?"

"Yes, but that would attract his attention. And I haven't advanced it enough to really be able to communicate with them, so it really wouldn't be much use."

"How about a patronus?"

"No, I can't do that," Mycroft said, cocking his head. "Wouldn't that attract even more attention?"

"Maybe. But it's worth the risk."

"Can you cast one, then?"

"Yeah," John said, raising his eyebrows. "Neither of you Holmes brothers can? If I didn't know better, I'd say you had crappy childhoods."

Mycroft smirked. "Our childhoods were just fine, thank you. Let's just say we never thought there was any use for learning the charm."

"Well, someday the pair of you will be surrounded by dementors, and then you'll be screwed."

"Yes, yes, thank you. Just remember that while you taunt me, my dear brother is down in the darkness, potentially being murdered by Moriarty."

John rolled his eyes, but pointed his wand towards the pit. He squeezed his eyes shut, and thought of all the days he had spent with Sherlock. Allowing the memory of their kiss under the stars flood through him like sunlight, "Expecto Patronum," he murmured. A powerful burst of silver shot from the end of his wand, at the same time that a bright light erupted from the maze. John gulped nervously, wondering what was going on in the darkness. On the bright side, no one seemed to notice the much smaller bit of silver that disappeared into the maze.

"What was that?" Mycroft asked beside him.

"No idea. Let's just hope Sherlock wasn't on the receiving end."

"I meant your patronus. That was small."

"That's none of your concern," he muttered defensively. "You don't even have one. Which means if dementors come, my small patronus is going to save your ass."

Sherlock and Irene could see the golden glow at the center of the maze about twenty feet below them. There was a platform of solid ground suspended by magic in midair-Sherlock guessed they were at the heart of the maze. But the golden glow wasn't coming from the Cup, which was lying forgotten on its side. There was a plane of light, almost like a portal, hovering above the ground that seemed to be pulsing. Moriarty stood in front of it, his wand out, murmuring something under his breath.

"I told you," Sherlock sang under his breath, smirking.

"Shut up!" hissed Irene. "Jack probably got held up. Or he's in the shadows somewhere."

"Hm. What is that device?"

"I don't know," Irene admitted. "I only knew a few pieces about Moriarty's plan. I know about what he hopes to achieve, but I have no idea about the end game, or the process."

"What do you know?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head curiously.

"You remember the little girl that Moriarty saved from the bog?"

"Yes. That was his sister, right?"

"Yes. She really is the most important thing in the world to him. He's probably diagnostically crazy, and not a very good person to put it mildly, but he loves her very much. And love is really dangerous, especially in someone whose mind is a bit crooked to begin with."

"And?"

"And she's a squib."

"She doesn't have magic?"

"No. She never showed any signs of it. They're an extremely influential pureblood family overseas. They have been for generations. Lyla is considered to be the shame of the family. Everyone treats her horribly, and acts as though she doesn't exist-everyone except for James, that is. She's always looked up to James, and when she found out she wasn't a witch she was devastated. Which of course was not helped by her family's total rejection of her."

Given the circumstances, Sherlock was finding it a bit hard to feel terribly sympathetic. "What does this have to do with what's going on?"

"I think…" Irene began carefully. "I think he's trying to come up with a way to make Lyla equal to everyone else. Give her what she always wanted. Give her magic."

"What does Jack have to do with that, then? What could his motive possibly be?"

Irene shrugged. "I don't know. You know him better than I do. I'm guessing there's something I'm missing. I don't know how this works. But it can't be good, Sherlock. You can't just mess with the natural order of things like that."

Sherlock was about to respond, but stopped short as a second figure stepped into the light.

"Sherlock, we have to do something now."

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock whispered urgently.

Irene hesitated for a moment, but then nodded.

Sherlock pointed his wand at her chest and murmured, "Avifors."

The girl was engulfed in a swirl of silver and blue light, and suddenly in her place, hovering gracefully in the air and giving Sherlock a reproachful look, was a beautiful blue bird.

"What?" he said defensively. "You don't have a wand."

The bird gave him a looks as if to say, "And whose fault is that?"

"Oh, stuff it," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "We have a malevolent plot to stop."

Moments after John's patronus had vanished into the depths of the maze, there was a small flutter of blue accompanied by urgent chirps. The flock of bluebirds swarmed around Nevamann's head, twittering in his ears.

"Talk about timing," John muttered, watching the Professor carefully. He could not make out the details of his face from this distance in the darkness, so he had no idea how the man was reacting to whatever information his blue—feather spies were tweeting at him.

And then with an almost laughably dramatic sweep of his cloak, he vanished into the darkness.

"Where did he go?" John whispered urgently. "Did he disapparate?"

"I'm not going to even bother to answer a question as stupid as that," the older boy hissed, rolling his eyes. "He went into the maze."

John eyed the pit and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knew he didn't have a choice about what came next, but he still wasn't happy about it. "Here goes nothing," he murmured to himself. He scrambled down from the bleachers, probably looking not nearly as badass as he imagined himself, sprinted to the edge of the pit, and threw himself into nothingness.

A/N: Sorry this was so short! I felt so bad that I hadn't managed to write in a while and wanted to at least give you something as a reminder that I haven't been abducted by aliens or something. Let me know what you think, and thanks, as always, for the support.