bakerstreet | Hogwarts AU meme

Hogwarts AU meme

Specify:

student/professor/castle ghost, etc.
what house
what year
pure blood/muggle born/etc.
any other preferences

Pick a prompt below or RNG

Prompts:

Quidditch Match: are you a player? a fan? someone who doesn't care for the sport but got dragged along anyway?
Welcome Feast: first years getting sorted, old friends seeing each other again, and all that food!
NSFW (Not Safe For Wizards): grabbing a quickie in the prefect's bathroom, seven minutes in heaven in the Room of Requirement, or what little witches get up to in the girls' dormitories.
Detention: are you cleaning cauldrons or sent off into the Forbidden Forest? either way, you're in trouble!
Class: passing notes in Potions, running late for Care of Magical Creatures, discussing selfies in Muggle Studies... whatever you're doing, remember, you're here to learn!
Holidays: do you go home for Christmas, or are you still at school? and what ugly sweater is Mum going to send this year?
Hogsmeade: congratulations, your parents signed the permission form (or maybe you forged the signature). time for some time outside of school.
Diagon Alley: back to school shopping! don't forget to stop by Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes!
Choose Your Own Adventure: but remember, the wand chooses the wizard.

[ it's not hard to figure out what John is looking for when he glances at his own hand, and Sherlock uses his comparatively undamaged one to reach out and tough his fingertips to two of John's in particular. ]

For example: those there are prominent usually in people who use the Disarming and Shield charms frequently. Obviously they could be caused by other things, but looking at the whole picture, it's quite clear.

[ he says it a bit defensively, too used to being called a liar, a cheat, a sneak or a stalker, even when he lays out the obvious signs in the first place. it doesn't really matter, of course -- he can't read John's laughter, but if he gets angry and refuses to treat him, it won't matter. he hadn't wanted to be treated anyway. Sherlock's only concern in that case would be getting the gauze so he can wrap his arm up himself. ]

[ he can't help it. he cannot help it, he's grinning like an idiot, big and lopsided and impressed but it is impressive, it's impressive, so why shouldn't he be? Sherlock points out the detail and John hunts for it as best he can (they're just his fingers, he can only see his fingers, but he thinks maybe he might be able to pick out what he's talking about and he's right, isn't he, he's right at the end of the day, whether John can see the evidence or not). and while he's standing here, gawping like a first year at a hippogriff, sparks flip about and heat radiates and oh bloody hell right I'm here to fix him up aren't I not to let him smoke and spit until he passes out.

John shakes his head, snaps himself out of it, twists his fingers out of the way with vague reluctance and settles them back to the task at hand, pressing with firm care around the edges of the worst of the wound. as much as he'd love to learn a little more about the incredible fact that his callouses show off his capabilities, this really is quite nasty and it really does need seeing to. ]

... Sorry. Right. Experiment, yeah? Brilliant. [ not, actually. and really, really he should send for Madame Pomfrey. this is outside of his experience and he should send for her, he should. but... ] Gauze isn't really much of an option.

[ but... ] ... Since it's an experiment, though - how'd you feel about a bit of experimental medicine?

[ after a half-heartbeat of stunned silence while Sherlock understands that John's laughter isn't derogatory but genuine, his entire face transforms, lighting up with delight, and he returns John's grin with a huge one of his own. how thrilling! when was the last time anyone had responded to him with anything resembling interest? and it wasn't even a particularly difficult observation! not that he cares one drop what other people think, and Mycroft says it's easier to not bother with anyone else and he's almost always right, as much as Sherlock hates to admit it, but it's so draining sometimes, having so much to share and no one to share it with.

he pulls his hand away as John does the same, curling it into a fist and resting it on the hospital cot. the sparks coming off of his potion-splashed arm aren't abating, and as much as he'd like to pretend otherwise, the potion splash does hurt, a very uncomfortable freezing-burning sensation that sends tingles of pain radiating through the whole limb. even so, he's still grinning with enthusiasm when he says: ]

Go on, then. What have you got?

[ this is the official point of no return. the official point at which he should stop and take stock of himself and say no, sorry, my bad, I'm going to have to go and get help. but it's exciting, isn't it? that's he's being allowed to try. and more than that, Sherlock's just shown him something remarkable, and John sort of wants to be able to do the same—

oh. the smile he's wearing fades somewhat, unbidden, as he takes in the startling difference made by a grin. it doesn't take him long to catch himself, but it's long enough that his lips tug back up aided in no small part by some little strange tug elsewhere, chestway, some brief swirl of self-consciousness and excitement.

John reaches behind him to fish out his wand from where he'd stuffed it into the belt of his trousers, turns to pick up a couple of the vials waiting on the other bed, talking as he goes. ]

Okay. I'm going to do my best to neutralise it. What were you trying to make, by the way? I'd say I'm not worried about the magic reacting with the chemicals, but - you know. [ a gesture to his arm. that's sort of exactly how this mess happened in the first place, so. ]

Replacing infusion of wormwood with a solution of quinine salts for an anti-fever potion.

[ he sounds so matter-of-fact about it, too. and why shouldn't he? the magically relevant component of wormwood is the quinine, so why on earth wouldn't using a chemically purer ingredient work? surely there must be some way of stabilizing the mixture -- too bad it exploded in his face instead. but he'll get it eventually.

in a way that he intends to be helpful: ] It's an alkaloid.

[ he looks curiously at the vials, more interested than he had expected to be to see what it is John's going to try. no one else would make the suggestion, of that he's positive. it's... unusual, that this student has managed to surprise Sherlock, and more than once. ]

[ and that's... actually, that's fortunate. because John's been studying fairly hard recently (and not what he should've been studying, no, but for his future? for his interests? yeah) and he's come across quinine salts, he thinks, enough that when they're mentioned in accordance with anti-fever potion a few odd bits of information spring up (cinchona tree, malaria, lupus, arthritis, analgesic anti-inflammatory antipyretic). John nods, pleased that the potion Sherlock was experimenting with is in an area he's at least got some understanding of - not that it helps him know how anything's going to react with the quinine salts themselves, but it wipes out the wormwood as a source of potential problems and John can piece together the rest of the ingredients well enough when taking into account the basic anti-fever potion.

he turns, discarding one of the vials in favour of another, and when he turns back he takes another look at the fizzling sparking wound before frowning and stalking off over to some supply draws, rooting around and then drawing a mortar and pestle out from under the desk. it's frustrating, because all that's coming to mind are the million and one easy ways to heal to wound - but that isn't the problem. the problem's in neutralising the magic since he's every reason to suspect it would just keep burning beneath the flesh if he had the skin heal over. there's no point unless he stops that reaction.

quinine salts... it's plant. it's plant matter, so it shouldn't react too badly with—

John's back in a flash, the final selection seeming to be Murtlap essence, Salamander blood and a small, ground up Asphodel bud. that's the important bit, that's what he's chosen as his key, and John's wand waits prone in his hand as he stands there, balanced perfectly on the fence, eyes locked onto Sherlock's face as he searches himself for is this really a good idea or am I just being a prat— and then he tumbles quite firmly over into next door's garden, determination firming his grip and steeling his gaze as he raises his wand to point up to the ceiling, waves, and utters— ] Aguamenti.

[ the water spurts out of the wand tip immediately, leaving John with a margin of a second to flourish his wrist again, ] Levioso. [ - and have it pause in its descent, suspended, floating. John draws his wand down and the water follows, pooling in the air between them where he sculpts it with a guiding circle of his wand into a globular sphere. with a precise tilt of his awkwardly full hand, John tips the Asphodel into the waiting water.

his eyes flick up then, entirely focused, and he holds out the vials for Sherlock to take in his well hand (there's no hint of if he can manage - he can manage just fine, John's decided, if he was going to accept some gauze and go on his way), to give John a hand to work with. ]

I need the Murtlap first.

[ he trusts Sherlock to know which vial to hold out. if he can experiment with muggle ingredients in magical potions, he can tell the difference between blood and murtlap essence. ]

[ watching John work is more engaging than Sherlock would have predicted, and he follows his every movement wordlessly, absorbing each choice of ingredient with interest. he can't say that he would have picked all of the same things, given the opportunity, but nothing John picks up is likely to have a terribly adverse effect on him, and Sherlock is excited despite himself to see what comes of this display of experimentation. John certainly looks to have a better grasp on the mechanics of medicinal magic than anyone else Sherlock has observed.

he accepts the vials when they're handed to him, the faintest smile tipping up the corners of his mouth. when called upon, he juggles them deftly in his hand in order to bring up the requested bottle, offered between his first two fingers, his eyes never leaving John's as he does it. he can't quite help a bit of cheek: ] Essence of murtlap, Doctor.

[ and that - yeah, that gets a smirk out of him, damn it, but he tampers it down almost as soon as it arrives, ] Cheers, Nurse. [ (almost as soon as) and reaches for the dropper in the vial, eyes only flitting away because they have to, lifting it up to hold over the waiting water.

one drop. two. John squints, watches the purple swirl and dilute, looks to the shred of the bud floating about in the water... a third drop and he's setting the dropper back down into its bottle, reaching over that vial for the salamander blood, plucking it up and unscrewing it deftly with one hand. a thin stream falls in to join the mix, let to flow for long enough that the thicker liquid pools heavily down to the bottom of the sphere before bleeding out into the solution. that vial's handed back to Sherlock, too, just held out for him to take, and John's attention's all on twisting his wand to have the water surge and spin in and around itself, mixing everything together.

while they're waiting: ] Murtlap, salamander blood, asphodel. The blood's the base, it's a good strong rejuvenator but in this case I'm more interested in its strengthening properties. The purpose of it is magic, more than anything. The solution needs a good magical foundation, and salamander blood won't get in the way of the other ingredients doing their job.

[ he speaks because he thinks Sherlock might appreciate it. also because he expects he'll understand which is good, which is really good, which means giving him the option of final say won't be like asking a child for its opinions on the topic of Animagi. it's also vaguely nerve wracking, but nerves go discarded in favour of keeping an eye on the colour of his makeshift solution, talk as he goes. ] Usually you wouldn't need the murtlap if you've got the blood - but like I said, the blood's got a different job here, and it's not the murtlap's healing qualities we're after either, I'll deal with the wound afterwards. It's the magic, the reaction that's the problem - so the murtlap's not there for healing, it's the soothing property. Use that to draw out and support the asphodel, give it all a kick with the salamander blood and what I'm going for -

[ finally, with one last spin, the solution has taken on a consistent dusky pink and John nods, shifts his eyes back to focus in on Sherlock's again. ] Is putting your screw up to sleep.

[ literally. it's maybe a far fetched idea, maybe something entirely conceptual, almost metaphorical rather than built on any definite proof... but if there's one thing John learned in growing up with magic in a muggle world for the first eleven years of his life, it's that for a lot of people, magic itself is one big metaphor. is everything except real. he's learned not to respond to it in exactitudes. to treat it with a little of the whimsy Muggles link up with the term. to really treat it like magic.

John's look is imploring. it's a question he doesn't actually ask. so? shall I, or shan't I? ]

[ part of what fascinates and irritates Sherlock in equal measure about magic is how practically alive it is -- not sentient, of course, but aware in its own way, and it responds in the same individual way as people. magic, like people, is predictable and consistent as a whole , but on a personal basis, it's wildly variable.

Sherlock's magic comes precisely, even when he works in theories; when he learned that magic was real and he had it, he treated it as an extension of science and continues to do so, but John's approach is obviously more abstract and figurative. if Sherlock were to have tried the same solution, he's sure it simply could not have functioned. any time he opens his mouth to raise an objection, to imperiously point out an obvious flaw, John outlines his idea well enough that Sherlock understands exactly what he's trying to do before he says it out loud. fantastic.

(god, someone with a functional brain. someone with imagination. someone with a sliver of originality. he's almost inclined to be offended that Hufflepuff had tried to keep John to itself.)

in response to John's silent query, Sherlock shifts and stretches out his wounded arm delicately, unbending it at the elbow to hold his sparking upturned wrist below the floating potion, one brow flicking up with interest and no small challenge. ] Let's see it.

[ hah. the poorly muted glee in John's face as he's granted permission light's him up, quirks lips back just slightly over teeth before he tampers it down enough to slip back into something vaguely professional, reaching out to place a steadying hand under Sherlock's as his wand guides the concoction down through the air.

it's jointly terrifying and invigorating, this moment, and that combination buries John in an untempered focus he rarely achieves under any other circumstances. like his body chemistry's the potion and this exact amount of this could go so badly wrong in addition to the right dosage of but I really don't think it's going to is what it takes to get the perfect grade.

the liquid meets its first spark and John leads it steadily the rest of the way, pausing only once it's covering the wrist entirely. the reaction is immediate. the sparks continue within the potion, unperturbed by the boundaries of science, and each one brings with it heat enough to bind and release what's needed from the asphodel. before ten seconds is up the whole thing goes from dusky pink to bright, solid red, consistency thicker and— John winces, only slightly, recognising what he hadn't taken into account a moment too late —hotter than it had been (should've added wartcap, just a bit... but then the crust might have got in the way and there's really no space for should haves now anyway, is there?). he keeps it suspended, grips a little more tightly around the back of Sherlock's hand both as support and a bid to ensure his stillness while he keeps the wrist submerged (one, two, three, four, f i v e...)

and lifts away, removing the now-steaming mixture off of Sherlock's skin to check on the results, work out what if any damage is done and what problems are fixed, primed to spin back into action if he's done more harm than good. ]

Alright? [ apologies come later, right now he's looking for insight. how does it feel. how much does it hurt. how is it? assessment, diagnosis, mind half on what's in front of him and half on what he's doing next. ]

Edited (contradictory sentenceeeessssss) 2014-07-07 14:56 (UTC)

the potion heats quickly enough that Sherlock manages to keep his reaction from being anything other than a quick flinch and a short bitten-off hhhnn -- it's absorbing the sparks for fuel, clearly, but setting his nerves on fire after having been numb for so long at the same time, and the muscles in his arm don't take long before they start screaming at how tense Sherlock is holding them in an attempt to keep from pulling away by instinct, and John's grip is tight and unflinching even if Sherlock tried to pull away, which is getting harder and harder to keep from doing --

then the worst of it is gone. Sherlock gasps a little when the potion leaves his skin, his arm trembling involuntarily, gone watery after the strain, and his forearm is still an open wound and his nerves have awoken from artificially-induced numbness and are complaining about the whole business, but the sparks have disappeared after fueling the heat-release, and other than being faintly iridescent now, like an oil spill, the splash looks more like an average chemical burn. he examines it with as much detachment as he can muster, leaving his hand tucked in John's. it's simply easier to let John support it, after all. ]

Hm. Well, sensation has returned, though I'm not sure how much I like having it back. It feels much more like a burn now -- perhaps silverweed, or motherwort?

[ he wiggles his fingers curiously, and is gratified to see them move almost exactly as directed. ]

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Hogwarts AU meme

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