Fic: The Magic of Deduction - 2/7
Title: The Magic of Deduction - Year Two
Author: writingispurdy
Rating: PG (this chapter)
Warning(s): bullying; poisoning?
Word count: 4,458
Summary: John Watson spends seven years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he meets the boy who will become the greatest man he'll ever know. Eventual Sherlock/John.
This chapter: Tea in classroom eleven directly after practice. Do please accept the invitation, I would hate to order you. Mycroft Holmes
.year two.
John Watson narrowly avoids detention on his very first day back at Hogwarts. He isn't even off the train. He's been kindly asked to leave the compartment he'd been sharing with Harry (kicked out, more like; a Third Year Ravenclaw named Clara had poked her head in and Harry had practically put a boot in his arse), and peers into other compartments to see if he can find Carl or Mike. Or that pretty Gryffindor girl in Harry's year that Harry never talks to (because she's too pretty, Harry says with a crinkling frown), Sarah.
What he finds is a fight.
Someone falls backwards out of the compartment in front of him, tumbles to the floor and hits the wall just in time for another student to come flying out on top of him, fists balled and throwing punches at the prostrate figure. The third is cheering his fellow on from the doorway. It's a tangle of Slytherins, and the corridor is immediately abuzz with shouting.
"Hey!" John calls, rolling up his sleeves and craning his neck backward to the heads suddenly peering out into the hallway. "Someone get a prefect!"
And John's in the fray without thinking, grabbing the topmost boy by the robes and heaving him off. The Slytherin struggles, swinging his fists in attempts to get at John as well. John gets his feet dug into the carpet and shoves the Slytherin in his hands hard up against the nearest window to placate him (the boy looks like a Second Year, but he's scrawnier than John, who's been working all summer and gotten quite sturdy). The one in the door is about ready to push off and help his friend when the called-for prefect finally arrives (a Gryffindor, one John hasn't met).
"Ten points from Slytherin for each of you," the prefect growls once she's got the two brawlers by the collar. "And ten from Hufflepuff, I'll be talking to your Heads of House-"
"He broke it up, he wasn't fighting," squeaks a First Year, suddenly right beside John. He must have come from the neighboring compartment, for how quickly he's shown up. "I saw everything."
The prefect frowns a bit, and finally nods. "All right. I'll still be talking to Professor Slughorn about detentions for you two..." And they're carted away down the corridor, leaving the knot of spectators spilling out into the hall.
John kneels down to help the abused party off the floor, but he knows who it is before he's even to the ground. There's no mistaking that mop of dark hair. Sherlock Holmes helps himself to his elbow, wiping away the blood leaking from his nose onto his top lip with a half-haughty, half-embarrassed sniff.
"Oh," John says, an old coal of dislike stirred back to heat somewhere between his lungs. "Er. All right?"
Sherlock nods, not looking up at any of the eyes peering down at him. He helps himself up, ignoring the hand John offers him, disappearing back into his compartment.
John sighs harshly through his nose, crosses his arms and tries to shake off the post-adrenaline jitters. The First Year is still standing at his elbow, wide-eyed and waiting.
"Hey, thanks..." John pauses for a name.
The boy bobs with excess energy and offers, "Jimmy."
When they get to Sorting, the helpful First Year, James Moriarty, goes to Slytherin with a bashful little smile.
+++
"You're not gonna try out?" John asks as he and Carl take the long walk to the Quidditch pitch.
"There's only two positions open," Carl dodges the question efficiently. "I'm too scrawny for a Beater, and I don't think I'd be a great Chaser. Maybe when Seeker opens up."
"Yeah. You are awful scrawny." John grins. He's had to borrow a broom from Mike, whose family got him a rather nice, if not a bit outdated, Nimbus 2000 that he never uses (he'd thought about trying for Keeper last year, but never got around to it).
John had practiced all summer. Or, at least, it felt like all summer. When he wasn't working for his uncle at St. Mungo's (nothing special, mostly lifting things and putting them somewhere else), he was at Mike's on the broom, swatting at bludgers. He'd only fallen off the broom once, and that was when Mike's big brother had hit him point-blank with a redirected bludger, and it was only five feet.
He'd met the Hufflepuff team captain before, but Greg Lestrade was a busy boy and little time for fraternizing. Now that he's a Fifth Year, he's been made prefect as well, and the stress is beginning to show in his face. But he smiles when John and Carl show on the pitch. There aren't many of them there, and John wonders whether it's because of the limited positions available or the quality of the team, or even general disinterest. It's true that the Quidditch Cup doesn't often find its way into Hufflepuff hands (something he hopes to help reverse), but he doesn't see that as a reason to give up any sense of hope.
If anything, it makes John more determined to prove that the Badgers are something to contend with.
"All right, you lot," Lestrade says once it seems as though all the hopefuls have shown (six for Chaser, three for Beater; the only Second Years are John and a girl named Soo Lin Yao, who has never spoken a word to him). "Chasers first. Up in the air, all of you."
As he waits, watching the hopefuls pass the quaffle expertly through the air, John peers up into the stands at the handful of spectators who have come out to watch the tryouts. It's hard to tell faces from the field, but the colors are present enough: mostly yellow, a smattering of blue, one spot of red (Harry?).
One of the spectators in the blue scarf rises and leaves the stands halfway through the Chaser trials, and even before John has a chance to wonder who it was or where they've gone, someone is standing behind him. John doesn't jump, but he's definitely surprised. John pales; it's the Head Boy, Mycroft Holmes.
He looks down his nose at John for a long moment before a long, condescending smile curls over his face. "Mary Morstan told me that you're the boy that broke up the unfortunate altercation on the Hogwarts Express the first day back." Mary Morstan, that must have been the Gryffindor prefect from the train. "I regret that I haven't spoken to you earlier, but the days of a Head Boy tend to be... cluttered."
John doesn't say anything, and high over their heads, Lestrade blows the whistle.
"As you must know by now, the boy who was the target of that attack is my younger brother, Sherlock. I would like to offer my personal thanks for your getting involved."
John shakes his head, and he doesn't know why. "I... It was nothing. I didn't even know it was him." Or I might've turned around and let them. He doesn't like that he thinks it, and it's gone in the same instant. Of course he would've stopped the fight, regardless of who it was throwing and taking punches.
It's almost like Mycroft sees the unsaid words hanging over John's head, because he gives a pinched, knowing smile. "I understand, John. He's certainly earned his fair share of retaliation. He may even have deserved it."
And suddenly, without John's noticing, another figure wrapped in a blue scarf has appeared behind the Head Boy. She's holding a small book close enough to hide the lower half of her face and doesn't even look up when she speaks to him.
"Sir?"
"Yes, about that time," Mycroft replies. "Good luck, John. And my thanks, again. I do worry about him." The last seems to be for Mycroft himself, as he's already turned away to join the Ravenclaw girl behind him. They walk away, not quite arm-in-arm, but giving off the impression of being so.
And then, Lestrade calls for the Beaters, and John has plenty of time to forget about the strange meeting.
He gets a standing ovation from the small crowd (yes, he definitely hears Harry shouting over the din) when he knocks Lestrade off his broom with a powerful knock from the bludger. Practically floating back to the castle on the adrenaline, John barely hears Carl praise his flying; the boy is absolutely sure that John's a shoe-in.
+++
The group of Hufflepuffs rushes down the stairs in a whirlwind of feet, all of them chattering at once and spurring John and Soo Lin ahead of them like riders on a wave. They tumble all together in one mass through the portrait hole once someone has managed to shout the password ("Puffapod!") and Mike nearly has John in a headlock as they're all wrangled to the notice board.
Quidditch results. John nearly faints.
John Watson, Beater
Soo Lin Yao, Chaser
There's a loud whoop somewhere behind them, and the pretty Chinese girl who's never spoken to him throws her arms around him in celebration. Someone breaks out a tin of fudge from Hogsmeade, and a party popper goes off over their heads.
"I expect good things from you, Watson," Lestrade tells him, his mouth half-full of crumbs. "You got a bloody good arm, but you could stand to maneuver a bit quicker. We'll get you sorted out soon as we can. That girl there with Stamford," Lestrade waves his arm to a girl in Mike's year, covered in freckles, "is your other Beater, Violet Hunter. Good girl, hell of a wallop." For the first time that John's seen, Lestrade breaks his stoicism gives a manic grin. "I got a good feeling about this year, Watson."
John can only nod enthusiastically, cut off as he's seized by someone and passed through the crowd in the common room to be patted repeatedly on the back.
Someone calls out "Quidditch Cup, here we come!" and there's a swell of noise. And even when the lights go out and the cheers have faded into the walls, and everyone has curled up in bed, John's singing nerves still won't let him sleep.
+++
"Look at that," Violet says with her mouth full at breakfast a week later. She's already got her bracers on, dressing for practice while she eats. John turns in the direction she's waved her spoon, and he immediately recognizes the figure stalking through the Great Hall. "Someone's got a new pet."
Sherlock Holmes strides purposefully for the door, a little First Year Ravenclaw following doggedly at his heels and staring up at him with enormous puppy-eyes.
"Who's that?" Soo Lin asks, and John's not sure if she means the boy or his stalker. He opens his mouth to answer the former, but Violet cuts back in.
"Molly Hooper. Her father's the Healer-in-Charge of Magical Bugs at St. Mungo's." She quints at the walking pair, and then her eyes go unbelievably wide. "He's got her carrying all his books!"
John frowns slightly as the two leave the corner of his eye, distracted as the post comes flying in. He scoops his toast away just in time for the family's ruffled old barn owl to flutter to a stop in front of him.
"Easy, Toby," John says as he smooths the owl's feathers. He offers a bit of his sausage as he off-handedly opens the letter. Toby gives a thankful clack of his beak before he's back off.
Tea in classroom eleven directly after practice. Do please accept the invitation, I would hate to order you.
Mycroft Holmes
"Oh," John says, not sure of the appropriate reaction. How had Mycroft gotten ahold of the family owl (perhaps it's best he never knows)? He doesn't show the note to anyone else, and after a particularly rainy practice, he makes the first excuse that comes to mind ("Got to check with Professor Sprout about that essay") to slip away.
The Ravenclaw girl he remembers seeing with Mycroft is already waiting outside the classroom door for him, her nose pressed into a different book but still allowing him no attention. Before his feet even pause, she opens the door with her free hand and gestures him inside.
The normally-empty classroom has been supplemented with a small round table and a set of chairs that wouldn't have been out of place at a Parisian cafe (John's never been to Paris, but he can make an educated guess). Mycroft Holmes stands by the table, leaning on his umbrella with a patient smile. He waves his hand at the table before him.
"Sit down, please."
John sidles over to the table and takes his seat, and the Ravenclaw girl has let go of her book long enough to pour two cups of hot tea.
"I understand you never received any house points for stopping young Mister Anderson from bludgeoning my brother on the train, Mister Watson," Mycroft says as he takes the seat opposite. John looks to where the girl was, only to find her gone without any sound of her retreat. "I think ten points to Hufflepuff should do?"
John peers into the fine white china cup as if he's not sure what to do with it, and finally takes a large gulp. It spreads a glorious warmth up and down his his throat and even radiating outward to his fingers. It's the most absolutely wonderful drink he's ever had.
"Thank you." The tea makes John's ten points seem like one hundred. "But..." He can feel Mycroft's sharp eyes narrow on him, though the stationary smile remains in place. "But you wouldn't need an empty classroom and tea to give me some extra points. You could've done that before practice."
The Head Boy shrugs, not surprised at being found out. "If I may ask a question of you, John," Mycroft begins into the silence, holding his teacup but not bringing it any closer to his lips.
John holds his cup with both hands, just under his lip to smell it and take another sip. He nods, though he's sure no one refuses Mycroft Holmes.
"As you know, this is my last year at Hogwarts. Not the ideal position for an older brother with a charge like mine. I don't dare to imagine what he'll get up to without my influence to look after him. I would feel so much more at ease if someone were to..." He swirls his teacup like a wineglass, peering into space thoughtfully, "keep an eye on him."
John's not sure, but it sounds very much like Mycroft is asking him to spy on Sherlock Holmes. He feels as though the word SPY is written ten feet high above his head, flashing red and buzzing. He doesn't like it, not in the least, because he knows the feeling too well.
"I don't know." He hides his face in his tea.
"You're very loyal for someone who doesn't know Sherlock as well as I do."
That's the point of a Hufflepuff. "I'm not... I mean, spying is no good for anyone."
(All the lights are out, like they should be, except the one in the kitchen. John sneaks because he's not supposed to be awake. Won't hurt to look. Harry, her face red and twisted into something awful, nearly drops the bottle in her hand and throws all the fruit in the bowl at him until he retreats, curls up under his bed and hides.)
"As Head Boy, I can give house points to whomever I think deserves them," Mycroft says after a brief silence. "What place is Hufflepuff in?"
And John had been set against the idea before, but now that the stink of bribery had been set firmly into the air, something inside the boy tightens and stands tall, and he digs in firmly.
"No." He swallows his nervousness and stands from the chair. "Not for three hundred points. I don't care who you'd have me spy on, but I won't be doing any of it."
Mycroft's frown flickers away for a moment, and it's almost terrifying. But John doesn't move. The emotionless smile is back just as quickly. "Of course, I won't force you into anything, John. I was merely asking. Would you like to finish your tea?"
"I'd like to get back to the common room now." John doesn't stumble over his words, and he wonders briefly just how he's done it when he feels so ill-at-ease.
"No one's stopping you." And Mycroft smiles in full, the tips of his teeth showing. He doesn't stand. "Have a good evening, John. And if you should change your mind, you know how to reach me."
+++
There are only a handful of students in the Great Hall when it happens.
It's the third of April, just before class starts again after lunch. John is the closest. At first, she doesn't even make a noise, just sort of bends at the waist and holds her hands to her middle with a pained expression pulled over her face.
Her name is Jennifer Wilson, First Year Ravenclaw. She's been poisoned.
John is the first one to his feet when Jennifer Wilson gives a loud shriek. The knot of First Year Ravenclaws around her shuffle backwards, clutching one another and staring helplessly as the girl first hits her knees, and then the floor.
Another head appears, a head crowned by dark curls.
John parts the First Years and skids down to the floor beside Jennifer Wilson, whose arms are barred tight over her middle as she kicks and writhes and bawls. His hands hover over her, and he should be scared because he doesn't know what to do. But he's not.
"What's her name?" he shoots quickly over his shoulder at Molly Hooper, who jumps. She has tears in her eyes.
"Jennie," she squeaks. "Is she-?"
"Jennie, it's all right," John insists, his hands still not touching her. "Jennie? Can you hear me?"
"It hurts!" she manages to squeeze between her teeth.
"Abdominal cramps," says the voice that descends to kneel beside John. He chances only the glance of a second to confirm: Sherlock Holmes. "What else?" John's mouth opens, and when he can't answer, Sherlock rounds harshly on the Ravenclaws behind them and snaps, "What else?"
"She's-" Molly squeaks again. "She's been sweating a lot. A bad headache since breakfast, and... and..." She pushes through frustrated tears for the word. "Nausea."
Sherlock's eyes are back on Jennifer Wilson, who's started to shake. Focus so intense, with such amazing speed of thought behind them. John's brain should be shouting panic, throwing alarms. But it doesn't. "Someone get Madame Pomfrey."
"No time," Sherlock says quickly. "I'll have her feet, and hurry. Professor Cairns's fireplace is connected to the Floo Network, it's closest."
"Floo Network? Why would we need...?" John is already complying, heading for the girl's head and lifting her gently under the arms when Sherlock does from her feet.
"She's been poisoned," Sherlock says as if it's the most obviously thing that's ever left his lips.
The Ravenclaws give a short, horrified groan as the two boys and their charge leave them behind. "Poisoned? We should be getting Professor Slughorn, and get her up to the Hospital Wing-"
"No use," Sherlock bites. "I doubt Professor Slughorn knows a thing about pesticides."
The girl in their arms shakes, moans.
Sherlock leads the way, practically running through bunched groups of students who turn and stare; John stutters apologies through the sheer audacity (and at his own-sneaking into the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher's office, what was he doing?). Fortunately, Professor Cairnes herself is there to explain the whole thing to.
They don't end up sending the poor girl through the Floo Network. Once her dire straits have been clearly established (precious moments wasted as they wait for Slughorn to arrive, Sherlock clearly agitated at the lack of action on the adults' parts), and even further that it was some sort of Muggle poison that no one in the room knew how to make heads or tails of, she's sent off in the surprisingly strong arms of Madame Pomfrey to a safe disapparation point.
John finds himself in the Headmistress's office for the very first time, huddled next to the fire with Sherlock Holmes as they wait for instruction, for the teachers to tell them whether what they've done was right or wrong. Someone keeps throwing afghans over their shoulders, and each time, Sherlock rips it away, giving it a puzzling look before tossing it behind him.
"How'd you know?" John asks at last, hardly more than a whisper. A few of the men in the nearest portraits lean in closer. John is on his second cup of tea; Sherlock's has gone stone cold. The dark-haired boy hardly looks up from the fire. "About the poison, I mean."
Sherlock shrugs. "It was obvious."
And that's all he'll ever get.
McGonagall finally returns from whatever meeting they've been having about the whole incident, looking shaken and strangely aged. Her hands descend onto the boys' shoulders and she offers them both a warm smile of encouragement.
"She'll be all right." A long, shaken sigh escapes from her, and she seems to relax now that the words have been said. "She may not be back for some time, but, thanks to you boys-"
"Who did it?" Sherlock insists, his pale face unreadable.
McGonagall blinks behind her spectacles. "I'm sorry, Mister Holmes?"
"The pesticide was put in her drink," Sherlock says. "Most likely at breakfast, if not at dinner the night before. No one else is showing symptoms, so she was a target. So, it was deliberate. So, who did it?"
She grips Sherlock's shoulder even tighter. "I assure you, we're doing all we can to find out what happened to Jennifer Wilson, and whoever might have..." The Headmistress barely suppresses a shudder. "Fifty points to both of your houses." She leaves it at that, ushering the boys from the office and excusing them from class for the rest of the day.
"Wow," John breathes once they reach the bottom of the stairs. "That was... incredible."
Sherlock sighs harshly through his nose. "Not enough data." And he's gone in a whirl of robe and scarf.
+++
Hufflepuff doesn't win the Quidditch Cup. Slytherin's tight offense tore through any defenses John and Violet were able to throw their way, and they lost something awful. No one blamed anyone else, and they had thrown themselves a rather spectacular pity party the night after the game. It's no surprise, then, that the House Cup isn't theirs to lay claim to, either.
No one says so, but it's thanks to John's extra points in the Jennifer Wilson affair that they're not last. They manage to pull ahead of Ravenclaw only just (most of the table is just ecstatic to have Jennie back, hardly any eyes are on the amount of sapphires in the hourglass). John goes a very interesting shade of red when McGonagall mentions his and Sherlock's names in the end-of-year speech, and there's a loud burst of applause from the Ravenclaw table (with a smattering from the others joining in).
Clara is sitting with Harry when John climbs onto the train, their hands stitched together and talking with their heads ducked close into one another. John doesn't even knock.
He considers for a moment joining Soo Lin and Violet in their compartment, but he passes by and picks the compartment occupied by a single boy with dark hair. His head snaps up when John enters, and he looks frankly surprised that anyone has acknowledged him at all.
"That was a brilliant thing you did," John says, flopping down into the seat across from Sherlock
"Which one?" Sherlock replies blandly, badly trying to play off his surprise with malaise.
The conceit of the statement blows John for a moment, but he's back quickly. "With the poison, and Jennifer Wilson. She could've died."
Sherlock looks at his feet. "It's all useless if I can't find who did it."
It's obvious that he's used to that word, brilliant, it's lost it's lustre. So John shifts and the movement catches Sherlock's eye back upward. "Y'know, it's like you said. Not all heroes are Gryffindors."
It's the first real smile John has ever seen on Sherlock's face.
PREVIOUS CHAPTER
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Author: writingispurdy
Rating: PG (this chapter)
Warning(s): bullying; poisoning?
Word count: 4,458
Summary: John Watson spends seven years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he meets the boy who will become the greatest man he'll ever know. Eventual Sherlock/John.
This chapter: Tea in classroom eleven directly after practice. Do please accept the invitation, I would hate to order you. Mycroft Holmes
.year two.
John Watson narrowly avoids detention on his very first day back at Hogwarts. He isn't even off the train. He's been kindly asked to leave the compartment he'd been sharing with Harry (kicked out, more like; a Third Year Ravenclaw named Clara had poked her head in and Harry had practically put a boot in his arse), and peers into other compartments to see if he can find Carl or Mike. Or that pretty Gryffindor girl in Harry's year that Harry never talks to (because she's too pretty, Harry says with a crinkling frown), Sarah.
What he finds is a fight.
Someone falls backwards out of the compartment in front of him, tumbles to the floor and hits the wall just in time for another student to come flying out on top of him, fists balled and throwing punches at the prostrate figure. The third is cheering his fellow on from the doorway. It's a tangle of Slytherins, and the corridor is immediately abuzz with shouting.
"Hey!" John calls, rolling up his sleeves and craning his neck backward to the heads suddenly peering out into the hallway. "Someone get a prefect!"
And John's in the fray without thinking, grabbing the topmost boy by the robes and heaving him off. The Slytherin struggles, swinging his fists in attempts to get at John as well. John gets his feet dug into the carpet and shoves the Slytherin in his hands hard up against the nearest window to placate him (the boy looks like a Second Year, but he's scrawnier than John, who's been working all summer and gotten quite sturdy). The one in the door is about ready to push off and help his friend when the called-for prefect finally arrives (a Gryffindor, one John hasn't met).
"Ten points from Slytherin for each of you," the prefect growls once she's got the two brawlers by the collar. "And ten from Hufflepuff, I'll be talking to your Heads of House-"
"He broke it up, he wasn't fighting," squeaks a First Year, suddenly right beside John. He must have come from the neighboring compartment, for how quickly he's shown up. "I saw everything."
The prefect frowns a bit, and finally nods. "All right. I'll still be talking to Professor Slughorn about detentions for you two..." And they're carted away down the corridor, leaving the knot of spectators spilling out into the hall.
John kneels down to help the abused party off the floor, but he knows who it is before he's even to the ground. There's no mistaking that mop of dark hair. Sherlock Holmes helps himself to his elbow, wiping away the blood leaking from his nose onto his top lip with a half-haughty, half-embarrassed sniff.
"Oh," John says, an old coal of dislike stirred back to heat somewhere between his lungs. "Er. All right?"
Sherlock nods, not looking up at any of the eyes peering down at him. He helps himself up, ignoring the hand John offers him, disappearing back into his compartment.
John sighs harshly through his nose, crosses his arms and tries to shake off the post-adrenaline jitters. The First Year is still standing at his elbow, wide-eyed and waiting.
"Hey, thanks..." John pauses for a name.
The boy bobs with excess energy and offers, "Jimmy."
When they get to Sorting, the helpful First Year, James Moriarty, goes to Slytherin with a bashful little smile.
+++
"You're not gonna try out?" John asks as he and Carl take the long walk to the Quidditch pitch.
"There's only two positions open," Carl dodges the question efficiently. "I'm too scrawny for a Beater, and I don't think I'd be a great Chaser. Maybe when Seeker opens up."
"Yeah. You are awful scrawny." John grins. He's had to borrow a broom from Mike, whose family got him a rather nice, if not a bit outdated, Nimbus 2000 that he never uses (he'd thought about trying for Keeper last year, but never got around to it).
John had practiced all summer. Or, at least, it felt like all summer. When he wasn't working for his uncle at St. Mungo's (nothing special, mostly lifting things and putting them somewhere else), he was at Mike's on the broom, swatting at bludgers. He'd only fallen off the broom once, and that was when Mike's big brother had hit him point-blank with a redirected bludger, and it was only five feet.
He'd met the Hufflepuff team captain before, but Greg Lestrade was a busy boy and little time for fraternizing. Now that he's a Fifth Year, he's been made prefect as well, and the stress is beginning to show in his face. But he smiles when John and Carl show on the pitch. There aren't many of them there, and John wonders whether it's because of the limited positions available or the quality of the team, or even general disinterest. It's true that the Quidditch Cup doesn't often find its way into Hufflepuff hands (something he hopes to help reverse), but he doesn't see that as a reason to give up any sense of hope.
If anything, it makes John more determined to prove that the Badgers are something to contend with.
"All right, you lot," Lestrade says once it seems as though all the hopefuls have shown (six for Chaser, three for Beater; the only Second Years are John and a girl named Soo Lin Yao, who has never spoken a word to him). "Chasers first. Up in the air, all of you."
As he waits, watching the hopefuls pass the quaffle expertly through the air, John peers up into the stands at the handful of spectators who have come out to watch the tryouts. It's hard to tell faces from the field, but the colors are present enough: mostly yellow, a smattering of blue, one spot of red (Harry?).
One of the spectators in the blue scarf rises and leaves the stands halfway through the Chaser trials, and even before John has a chance to wonder who it was or where they've gone, someone is standing behind him. John doesn't jump, but he's definitely surprised. John pales; it's the Head Boy, Mycroft Holmes.
He looks down his nose at John for a long moment before a long, condescending smile curls over his face. "Mary Morstan told me that you're the boy that broke up the unfortunate altercation on the Hogwarts Express the first day back." Mary Morstan, that must have been the Gryffindor prefect from the train. "I regret that I haven't spoken to you earlier, but the days of a Head Boy tend to be... cluttered."
John doesn't say anything, and high over their heads, Lestrade blows the whistle.
"As you must know by now, the boy who was the target of that attack is my younger brother, Sherlock. I would like to offer my personal thanks for your getting involved."
John shakes his head, and he doesn't know why. "I... It was nothing. I didn't even know it was him." Or I might've turned around and let them. He doesn't like that he thinks it, and it's gone in the same instant. Of course he would've stopped the fight, regardless of who it was throwing and taking punches.
It's almost like Mycroft sees the unsaid words hanging over John's head, because he gives a pinched, knowing smile. "I understand, John. He's certainly earned his fair share of retaliation. He may even have deserved it."
And suddenly, without John's noticing, another figure wrapped in a blue scarf has appeared behind the Head Boy. She's holding a small book close enough to hide the lower half of her face and doesn't even look up when she speaks to him.
"Sir?"
"Yes, about that time," Mycroft replies. "Good luck, John. And my thanks, again. I do worry about him." The last seems to be for Mycroft himself, as he's already turned away to join the Ravenclaw girl behind him. They walk away, not quite arm-in-arm, but giving off the impression of being so.
And then, Lestrade calls for the Beaters, and John has plenty of time to forget about the strange meeting.
He gets a standing ovation from the small crowd (yes, he definitely hears Harry shouting over the din) when he knocks Lestrade off his broom with a powerful knock from the bludger. Practically floating back to the castle on the adrenaline, John barely hears Carl praise his flying; the boy is absolutely sure that John's a shoe-in.
+++
The group of Hufflepuffs rushes down the stairs in a whirlwind of feet, all of them chattering at once and spurring John and Soo Lin ahead of them like riders on a wave. They tumble all together in one mass through the portrait hole once someone has managed to shout the password ("Puffapod!") and Mike nearly has John in a headlock as they're all wrangled to the notice board.
Quidditch results. John nearly faints.
John Watson, Beater
Soo Lin Yao, Chaser
There's a loud whoop somewhere behind them, and the pretty Chinese girl who's never spoken to him throws her arms around him in celebration. Someone breaks out a tin of fudge from Hogsmeade, and a party popper goes off over their heads.
"I expect good things from you, Watson," Lestrade tells him, his mouth half-full of crumbs. "You got a bloody good arm, but you could stand to maneuver a bit quicker. We'll get you sorted out soon as we can. That girl there with Stamford," Lestrade waves his arm to a girl in Mike's year, covered in freckles, "is your other Beater, Violet Hunter. Good girl, hell of a wallop." For the first time that John's seen, Lestrade breaks his stoicism gives a manic grin. "I got a good feeling about this year, Watson."
John can only nod enthusiastically, cut off as he's seized by someone and passed through the crowd in the common room to be patted repeatedly on the back.
Someone calls out "Quidditch Cup, here we come!" and there's a swell of noise. And even when the lights go out and the cheers have faded into the walls, and everyone has curled up in bed, John's singing nerves still won't let him sleep.
+++
"Look at that," Violet says with her mouth full at breakfast a week later. She's already got her bracers on, dressing for practice while she eats. John turns in the direction she's waved her spoon, and he immediately recognizes the figure stalking through the Great Hall. "Someone's got a new pet."
Sherlock Holmes strides purposefully for the door, a little First Year Ravenclaw following doggedly at his heels and staring up at him with enormous puppy-eyes.
"Who's that?" Soo Lin asks, and John's not sure if she means the boy or his stalker. He opens his mouth to answer the former, but Violet cuts back in.
"Molly Hooper. Her father's the Healer-in-Charge of Magical Bugs at St. Mungo's." She quints at the walking pair, and then her eyes go unbelievably wide. "He's got her carrying all his books!"
John frowns slightly as the two leave the corner of his eye, distracted as the post comes flying in. He scoops his toast away just in time for the family's ruffled old barn owl to flutter to a stop in front of him.
"Easy, Toby," John says as he smooths the owl's feathers. He offers a bit of his sausage as he off-handedly opens the letter. Toby gives a thankful clack of his beak before he's back off.
Tea in classroom eleven directly after practice. Do please accept the invitation, I would hate to order you.
Mycroft Holmes
"Oh," John says, not sure of the appropriate reaction. How had Mycroft gotten ahold of the family owl (perhaps it's best he never knows)? He doesn't show the note to anyone else, and after a particularly rainy practice, he makes the first excuse that comes to mind ("Got to check with Professor Sprout about that essay") to slip away.
The Ravenclaw girl he remembers seeing with Mycroft is already waiting outside the classroom door for him, her nose pressed into a different book but still allowing him no attention. Before his feet even pause, she opens the door with her free hand and gestures him inside.
The normally-empty classroom has been supplemented with a small round table and a set of chairs that wouldn't have been out of place at a Parisian cafe (John's never been to Paris, but he can make an educated guess). Mycroft Holmes stands by the table, leaning on his umbrella with a patient smile. He waves his hand at the table before him.
"Sit down, please."
John sidles over to the table and takes his seat, and the Ravenclaw girl has let go of her book long enough to pour two cups of hot tea.
"I understand you never received any house points for stopping young Mister Anderson from bludgeoning my brother on the train, Mister Watson," Mycroft says as he takes the seat opposite. John looks to where the girl was, only to find her gone without any sound of her retreat. "I think ten points to Hufflepuff should do?"
John peers into the fine white china cup as if he's not sure what to do with it, and finally takes a large gulp. It spreads a glorious warmth up and down his his throat and even radiating outward to his fingers. It's the most absolutely wonderful drink he's ever had.
"Thank you." The tea makes John's ten points seem like one hundred. "But..." He can feel Mycroft's sharp eyes narrow on him, though the stationary smile remains in place. "But you wouldn't need an empty classroom and tea to give me some extra points. You could've done that before practice."
The Head Boy shrugs, not surprised at being found out. "If I may ask a question of you, John," Mycroft begins into the silence, holding his teacup but not bringing it any closer to his lips.
John holds his cup with both hands, just under his lip to smell it and take another sip. He nods, though he's sure no one refuses Mycroft Holmes.
"As you know, this is my last year at Hogwarts. Not the ideal position for an older brother with a charge like mine. I don't dare to imagine what he'll get up to without my influence to look after him. I would feel so much more at ease if someone were to..." He swirls his teacup like a wineglass, peering into space thoughtfully, "keep an eye on him."
John's not sure, but it sounds very much like Mycroft is asking him to spy on Sherlock Holmes. He feels as though the word SPY is written ten feet high above his head, flashing red and buzzing. He doesn't like it, not in the least, because he knows the feeling too well.
"I don't know." He hides his face in his tea.
"You're very loyal for someone who doesn't know Sherlock as well as I do."
That's the point of a Hufflepuff. "I'm not... I mean, spying is no good for anyone."
(All the lights are out, like they should be, except the one in the kitchen. John sneaks because he's not supposed to be awake. Won't hurt to look. Harry, her face red and twisted into something awful, nearly drops the bottle in her hand and throws all the fruit in the bowl at him until he retreats, curls up under his bed and hides.)
"As Head Boy, I can give house points to whomever I think deserves them," Mycroft says after a brief silence. "What place is Hufflepuff in?"
And John had been set against the idea before, but now that the stink of bribery had been set firmly into the air, something inside the boy tightens and stands tall, and he digs in firmly.
"No." He swallows his nervousness and stands from the chair. "Not for three hundred points. I don't care who you'd have me spy on, but I won't be doing any of it."
Mycroft's frown flickers away for a moment, and it's almost terrifying. But John doesn't move. The emotionless smile is back just as quickly. "Of course, I won't force you into anything, John. I was merely asking. Would you like to finish your tea?"
"I'd like to get back to the common room now." John doesn't stumble over his words, and he wonders briefly just how he's done it when he feels so ill-at-ease.
"No one's stopping you." And Mycroft smiles in full, the tips of his teeth showing. He doesn't stand. "Have a good evening, John. And if you should change your mind, you know how to reach me."
+++
There are only a handful of students in the Great Hall when it happens.
It's the third of April, just before class starts again after lunch. John is the closest. At first, she doesn't even make a noise, just sort of bends at the waist and holds her hands to her middle with a pained expression pulled over her face.
Her name is Jennifer Wilson, First Year Ravenclaw. She's been poisoned.
John is the first one to his feet when Jennifer Wilson gives a loud shriek. The knot of First Year Ravenclaws around her shuffle backwards, clutching one another and staring helplessly as the girl first hits her knees, and then the floor.
Another head appears, a head crowned by dark curls.
John parts the First Years and skids down to the floor beside Jennifer Wilson, whose arms are barred tight over her middle as she kicks and writhes and bawls. His hands hover over her, and he should be scared because he doesn't know what to do. But he's not.
"What's her name?" he shoots quickly over his shoulder at Molly Hooper, who jumps. She has tears in her eyes.
"Jennie," she squeaks. "Is she-?"
"Jennie, it's all right," John insists, his hands still not touching her. "Jennie? Can you hear me?"
"It hurts!" she manages to squeeze between her teeth.
"Abdominal cramps," says the voice that descends to kneel beside John. He chances only the glance of a second to confirm: Sherlock Holmes. "What else?" John's mouth opens, and when he can't answer, Sherlock rounds harshly on the Ravenclaws behind them and snaps, "What else?"
"She's-" Molly squeaks again. "She's been sweating a lot. A bad headache since breakfast, and... and..." She pushes through frustrated tears for the word. "Nausea."
Sherlock's eyes are back on Jennifer Wilson, who's started to shake. Focus so intense, with such amazing speed of thought behind them. John's brain should be shouting panic, throwing alarms. But it doesn't. "Someone get Madame Pomfrey."
"No time," Sherlock says quickly. "I'll have her feet, and hurry. Professor Cairns's fireplace is connected to the Floo Network, it's closest."
"Floo Network? Why would we need...?" John is already complying, heading for the girl's head and lifting her gently under the arms when Sherlock does from her feet.
"She's been poisoned," Sherlock says as if it's the most obviously thing that's ever left his lips.
The Ravenclaws give a short, horrified groan as the two boys and their charge leave them behind. "Poisoned? We should be getting Professor Slughorn, and get her up to the Hospital Wing-"
"No use," Sherlock bites. "I doubt Professor Slughorn knows a thing about pesticides."
The girl in their arms shakes, moans.
Sherlock leads the way, practically running through bunched groups of students who turn and stare; John stutters apologies through the sheer audacity (and at his own-sneaking into the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher's office, what was he doing?). Fortunately, Professor Cairnes herself is there to explain the whole thing to.
They don't end up sending the poor girl through the Floo Network. Once her dire straits have been clearly established (precious moments wasted as they wait for Slughorn to arrive, Sherlock clearly agitated at the lack of action on the adults' parts), and even further that it was some sort of Muggle poison that no one in the room knew how to make heads or tails of, she's sent off in the surprisingly strong arms of Madame Pomfrey to a safe disapparation point.
John finds himself in the Headmistress's office for the very first time, huddled next to the fire with Sherlock Holmes as they wait for instruction, for the teachers to tell them whether what they've done was right or wrong. Someone keeps throwing afghans over their shoulders, and each time, Sherlock rips it away, giving it a puzzling look before tossing it behind him.
"How'd you know?" John asks at last, hardly more than a whisper. A few of the men in the nearest portraits lean in closer. John is on his second cup of tea; Sherlock's has gone stone cold. The dark-haired boy hardly looks up from the fire. "About the poison, I mean."
Sherlock shrugs. "It was obvious."
And that's all he'll ever get.
McGonagall finally returns from whatever meeting they've been having about the whole incident, looking shaken and strangely aged. Her hands descend onto the boys' shoulders and she offers them both a warm smile of encouragement.
"She'll be all right." A long, shaken sigh escapes from her, and she seems to relax now that the words have been said. "She may not be back for some time, but, thanks to you boys-"
"Who did it?" Sherlock insists, his pale face unreadable.
McGonagall blinks behind her spectacles. "I'm sorry, Mister Holmes?"
"The pesticide was put in her drink," Sherlock says. "Most likely at breakfast, if not at dinner the night before. No one else is showing symptoms, so she was a target. So, it was deliberate. So, who did it?"
She grips Sherlock's shoulder even tighter. "I assure you, we're doing all we can to find out what happened to Jennifer Wilson, and whoever might have..." The Headmistress barely suppresses a shudder. "Fifty points to both of your houses." She leaves it at that, ushering the boys from the office and excusing them from class for the rest of the day.
"Wow," John breathes once they reach the bottom of the stairs. "That was... incredible."
Sherlock sighs harshly through his nose. "Not enough data." And he's gone in a whirl of robe and scarf.
+++
Hufflepuff doesn't win the Quidditch Cup. Slytherin's tight offense tore through any defenses John and Violet were able to throw their way, and they lost something awful. No one blamed anyone else, and they had thrown themselves a rather spectacular pity party the night after the game. It's no surprise, then, that the House Cup isn't theirs to lay claim to, either.
No one says so, but it's thanks to John's extra points in the Jennifer Wilson affair that they're not last. They manage to pull ahead of Ravenclaw only just (most of the table is just ecstatic to have Jennie back, hardly any eyes are on the amount of sapphires in the hourglass). John goes a very interesting shade of red when McGonagall mentions his and Sherlock's names in the end-of-year speech, and there's a loud burst of applause from the Ravenclaw table (with a smattering from the others joining in).
Clara is sitting with Harry when John climbs onto the train, their hands stitched together and talking with their heads ducked close into one another. John doesn't even knock.
He considers for a moment joining Soo Lin and Violet in their compartment, but he passes by and picks the compartment occupied by a single boy with dark hair. His head snaps up when John enters, and he looks frankly surprised that anyone has acknowledged him at all.
"That was a brilliant thing you did," John says, flopping down into the seat across from Sherlock
"Which one?" Sherlock replies blandly, badly trying to play off his surprise with malaise.
The conceit of the statement blows John for a moment, but he's back quickly. "With the poison, and Jennifer Wilson. She could've died."
Sherlock looks at his feet. "It's all useless if I can't find who did it."
It's obvious that he's used to that word, brilliant, it's lost it's lustre. So John shifts and the movement catches Sherlock's eye back upward. "Y'know, it's like you said. Not all heroes are Gryffindors."
It's the first real smile John has ever seen on Sherlock's face.
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