Over two weeks! I know, I know, I'm sorry. I've been sick and had millions of assignments and other stuff going on so I haven't had time or inspiration. And sorry this chapter's not great - I needed to post something! So yes, hopefully you enjoy this chapter! Also, sorry if I haven't been answering reviews - again, disorganisation and lack of time had interfered. But fear not, an update appears!

Chimera: Hehe, glad you like it! And you'll just have to wait and see what pairings I do!

Guest: Thanks! You're roleplaying this? *faints* Hehe, you're too nice! And your English is brilliant! Especially compared to my second language...

Whovian:Um... is this soon? *rubs neck sheepishly* Sorry! Update is here!

Guest (x3): Update is here!

Guest: Yea... nope! Trust me, John Watson hasn't come in but he will and he will be epic

MyNameIsSara:Teehee, thanks!

Guest: The blood on the wall :D Ehehe! I like throwing spanners at people's expectations of what is going to happen

They walked out of the class, everyone whispering.

"I always knew that Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony. You couldn't convince me to be in his house if you paid me. All this pure blood stuff."

"The hat considered putting me in Slytherin."

Sherlock's voice was as uninterested it always was, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Ron was staring at him.

"What?" he asked, turning to look at his friend. The red haired boy was still gaping.

"You were going to be in Slytherin?"

"Ron, I'm a pureblood from a line of Slytherins. I am cunning, and I am resourceful. I am basically what Slytherin looked for in a student. I think that Mycroft was actually disappointed that I ended up in Gryffindor."

Sherlock's slight smile told John exactly what he thought of that. Sherlock had probably asked the sorting hat, knowing him. Begged it to put him anywhere but Slytherin. Anything to annoy his older brother. John noticed Harry's expression out of the corner of his eye. A sort of... relieved look?

The change in mood inside Hogwarts was incredible. You could cut tension with a knife. Whispers about the chamber of secrets were everywhere, with various different hypothesises. However, pretty soon there was something else to occupy everyone's attention.

"Slytherin verses Gryffindor match coming up," Harry told them all. "We've got to win - I don't think I could stand Malfoy if we didn't."

Even Sherlock seemed more interested in the sport than usual.

"I have never gotten along with the Malfoys, so if you beat them on lesser brooms it would be brilliant."

Harry, however, wasn't looking too confident. "I wish we all had nimbus 2001s for this match. It would be nice to just have that edge."

"Mycroft could probably get his hands on some, if you really wanted. It's not at if the Holmes family are short of funds. I mean, having to ask Mycroft would be annoying, but I could."

That was probably the closest to Sherlock being friendly - actually offering to talk to Mycroft to help out a friend. In general, association with his brother was a bit of a no-go area. The pair of them didn't get along extremely well, although John said that they simply acted as all siblings were meant to act.

"No, it's okay," Harry replied quickly. "I wouldn't want to put you out at all. Plus, I would rather beat Slytherin on our own brooms."

And that was the last it was brought up.

The Doctor was standing in the ruins of Arcadia. It was just him, now. Him standing on his own, staring at the Nightmare Child. The massive form, black and smoky, was still leering. Laughing in the wake of all the agony it had caused.

"I'm not dead yet! You realise that, don't you? I am still here! I am still hope! I live on while nobody else does and I am not afraid of you!"

He laughed again. He had nothing to loose. Nothing to fear. There were no daleks, no time lords, no nothing. Just him and this... thing. And the thing couldn't hurt him. It feasted off his mind, off his fears and off his insecurities. But he was alive. He was the last one alive at what used to be Arcadia. The Doctor, the survivor.

And he laughed. He laughed and teased with a black humor that only one who had seen such destruction could laugh at. But in that laugh was hope. He could survive this, he could survive anything, and he could defeat the nightmare child.

And the thing was changing. Becoming corporeal and splitting at the seams. Then suddenly it fell apart, fraying at the seams. Black smoke, almost like shards of fabric, began to fall all around him. Other parts flew off, where to nobody knows. But the parts that fell around him slowly floated to the forms of the Time Lord corpses. And the Doctor watched in horror as it began to wrap itself around their limp forms. The rose from the ground, re-animated. Grotesque figures wrapped in black cloak.

The Doctor gulped. He was no longer alone, the Time Lords around him rising. He could see his TARDIS, and knew one thing he wanted to do. Romana's body was lying there, so close. He wanted to grab it, take it back home.

But the black cloak was already falling, slowly engulfing her body. He knew that she was lost.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, before he fled into his TARDIS and left the dead planet.

The Doctor - no, John. He was John. John John John. John woke in a cold sweat. He sat up, breathing hard, to see the forms of his sleeping room mates. Sherlock in the bed right to him, then Harry, then Ron, then Neville, then Seamus, then Dean in the bed to the left of him. All of them were sound asleep. Silently, he slipped out of bed, pulling on the jumper Ron's mother had given him for Christmas over his pyjamas and grabbing his blue journal.

Sitting in front of the fire, he began to illustrate his dream. The Nightmare Child's form, the wisps of smoke that had flown off, the cloak covered Time Lords and Ladies.

The nightmare child's form touched these and created something new

More of the nightmare child also blew off

Nightmare child lives (?)

He stared at the name. The idea of it - the nightmare child. The nightmare child that could be entirely feasting fear and horror, but could also have form. He got the feeling that the fall of Arcadia wasn't the last that the Doctor saw of the thing. And the idea of remembering more of that creature was horrifying. The daleks - he could see how they happened. They started off just trying to survive and became twisted, hateful. The Could Have Been King was a failure of Time Lord society. His Meanwhiles and Neverwheres were darker, more twisted versions of thestrals. But the nightmare child... it was pure hate. Hate and fear and sadness. Literally a creature born of nightmares. And that scared him more than anything.

He stood over the burning civilisations, cold, calculating. The last survivor. Great and terrible, trying to believe it was the only way.

John felt himself shiver ever so slightly. The Doctor could be more fearsome than the Nightmare Child. The nightmare child was what it was. It was hate and it was evil, and that was all it knew. But the Doctor... the Doctor was worse. He knew what he was doing. He was something deadlier. The genocidal pacifist. The peaceful soldier. Never carrying a weapon but destroying everything. And when he wasn't being confusing, he was the oncoming storm. The destroyer of worlds. The lonely god. And John didn't want to be lonely. He just wanted Sherlock by his side, he was happy being John. Wizard John with a life and a home and friends and a family.

He sat there, adding little notes to his journal and thinking. He couldn't run forever, could he? Still, he would try. He'd come up with ways. He had to.

Sherlock hadn't actually attended a quidditch match before. It was never a pastime that seemed particularly interesting, so he generally avoided them in favor of looking around the castle. Since the first time he'd stumbled upon her painting, Sherlock had become rather good friends with Mrs. Hudson. She would put in good words to the other paintings about him until he had an entire network of the things, telling him what was going on. Unfortunately for him, however, there was not a single painting in the corridor where Mrs. Norris was attacked. Most people would say it was just a coincidence, but Sherlock didn't believe in them. No, whoever attacked Mrs. Norris was clever. Perhaps not Sherlock and John clever, but clever. Think like your enemies. That was always a good rule.

However, they had the advantage. If whoever attacked Mrs. Norris struck again, and Sherlock was nearly certain that they would, he would be at a disadvantage. He would have to think to get rid of any clues, whereas Sherlock just needed to see them. He just had to make the links.

The morning of this quidditch match was no different. While the rest of the school was watching the match, he could go and investigate the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked. It seemed like the best time - since the attack it had been impossible to investigate on his own. So while everyone else was getting up and ready for the match, he was sitting there waiting for them to leave.

"Good luck, Harry."

"You're not coming to watch?"

"I don't see the point."

"Of corse you don't," Harry sighed, shouldering his broom and leaving. Sherlock didn't understand why he was so surprised; Sherlock didn't have any interest in the sport. Or any sport, for that matter. Plus, there were more interesting things happening.

As soon as the entire common room was cleared, Sherlock ran to the second floor, excited about being able to investigate. Alone. No teachers snooping, no students giggling, no nothing.

The water and Filtch's scrubbing had wipes away quite a large portion of the evidence. However, there was still some things that could be done.

"Blood is most certainly rooster," Sherlock muttered softly, looking at the enchanted writing. "Charmed heavily, it seems. Probably so that people won't forget. Water washed away and other evidence."

He walked towards the bathroom, knowing that that was where the water had come from.

"Who's there?"

A squeaky girl's voice cut through the silence.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied, projecting his voice.

"You're a boy!"

"Yes, I have figured that out before now."

"This is a girl's bathroom."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I have figured that out too."

A ghostly girl, who Sherlock assumed was the owner of the voice, floated out of the cubical and joined him.

"Then why are you here?"

"I want to know what happened on the night of Hallowe'en. A cat as attacked outside your bathroom."

The girl floated down to his level. "I don't know. I didn't see anything. Peeves was being awful to me at the death day party, teasing 'poor, miserable, moaning Myrtle' so I came in here and tried to kill myself before I realised... I realised..." she gave a dramatic sob. "I'm already dead!"

"Yes, I've noticed. Generally you have to be dead to become a ghost," Sherlock told her, rolling his eyes in boredom at the girl. "However, you must have heard or seen something out of the ordinary."

She shook her head, floating away from him.

"I was in my cubicle. I saw and heard nothing."

Sherlock sighed in frustration. "Right. Well, if do see something unusual, tell me. Or get one of the other ghosts to pass the message on."

"Well," the ghost girl said, "There was an incident a few weeks back. A girl, red haired, came in and threw away a diary. Passed right through my head. And then, a few hours later, another girl came in. Innocent one, that one. Seemed to be in a bit of a daze. Picked it up and smiled, saying something about unusual magic, before leaving with it. Blonde girl."

Sherlock nodded and added that piece of information to his memory. Any piece of information was handy at this point in time.

Bit iffy, but there we go! Sorry again for the delay. I'll try to have the next one up soonish, but no promises. I'm blocking a bit here!