John followed Sherlock down the hall to a set of double wooden doors, which were wide open. The room inside looked like a hospital, with beds lined across sides of the rooms, curtains around them, some drawn, some not. But the room was packed beyond belief, there were beds crammed together, in the middle of the room, leaving very little walking space. There were people occupying every single bed, moaning and groaning. John saw people with bloody bandages wrapped around their heads and limbs, some with no arms or legs; one was covered in what seemed to be boils. It looked like a war hospital, nurses in old white nurse dresses running around, trying to care for everyone at once. Older looking students in black robes lined with different colors helped out, changing bandages and giving what looked like shots of colored mud. Sherlock walked to one of the helpers, telling John to stay outside of the doors. John was okay with that, he didn’t want to go in there; it was a very disturbing place. Sherlock talked, then pointed at John, and the healer shook her head sadly and walked off. Sherlock scowled at her, and walked back to John.

“They’re too busy for injuries as little as yours, but I think I could mend you myself.” Sherlock said confidently. John didn’t know if he could trust him, and mending John didn’t sound like a simple band aid. “Follow me!” Sherlock commanded.

“Why are so many people injured?” John asked.

“We’re in the middle of a war, and Hogwarts is the only safe place anymore. We send people out to save people, they come back badly injured, and we have to heal them, simple.” Sherlock said, turning a corner. There was a massive staircase in front of them, completely made of stone, but the entire staircase moved, rotating to another position like a train track. If that wasn’t weird enough, there were pictures lining the entire thing, which was as tall as an elevator shaft, but all of the pictures moved. Not like a slide show, or a movie, the painted people moved around in the frames, talking to each other, moving from picture to picture casually. John stared at one, which was several knights sitting at a round table.

“What are you looking at?” one of them asked. John jumped back in shock, the picture just spoke!

“How do they talk!” John gasped, not to really anyone.

“I already told you, magic.” Sherlock said annoyingly.

“Magic isn’t real!” John demanded. Sherlock sighed, as if disappointed in John’s stupidity.

“Just come on.” He insisted. They went down a couple of stair cases until they found themselves in what looked to be an entrance hall. There were two sets of gigantic wooden doors. One set, leading to what seemed to be a cafeteria or something, was open, and the other was closed tight with an iron gate protecting it.

“Where does that lead?” John asked.

“Outside.” Sherlock said simply, turning a corner and going down yet another flight of steps, but these were secluded. The temperature dropped as they got lower, and John shivered, pulling his thin jacket around him. Finally they reached a wooden door, which Sherlock opened without knocking. It was a classroom, filled with kids, all cutting things on cutting boards and throwing them into pots of boiling water. The class paused what they were doing to look at the two newcomers. John looked back with amazement, it seemed like they were cooking things, but whatever it was looked like more colored mud, this must be ‘potions’ class. There was a desk on a raised platform above the students, and the teacher was the creepy black haired one from the room John was first in, scowling at them.

“Get on with the potions!” He hissed at the class, sending a shiver up John’s spine. The class obeyed immediately, cutting and throwing again. They all had their books open to different potions, and everyone seemed to be a remedy for some disease, from blood loss to headaches. John followed Sherlock to the front of the room and down a small hallway. There were a couple of doors, and Sherlock opened the first one he came to, walking in without hesitation. John followed to see the weirdest room he’d ever seen. There was a fireplace with a couch on one side, but on the fire mantle was a human skull. On the other side of the room was an unmade bed and tables filled with science equipment, like microscopes and stuff, and also the pots the students were cooking in the classroom.

“Sit on the couch.” Sherlock commanded. John reluctantly sat on the couch, scared there would be a trap or something set up. Sherlock came over with his wand in his hand, tapping it against his leg as he looked threw a book with one hand.

“Here we go, just stay still.” He said. He pointed his wand at John’s skinned knee, muttered something in more gibberish, and a soft golden light came from the wand, warming John up, and the pain in his leg disappeared. He looked down to see unmarked skin on his knee, no signs other than torn pants that there was ever a wound.

“How’d you do that?!” John exclaimed.

“Magic.” Sherlock said obviously. John stared at him, starting to actually accept the fact that he might not be lying.  He held the wand up to John’s other knee, muttered the same spell thing, and the knee healed itself instantly. Once his hands had been healed, and a small cut on his forehead from the door frame, John looked at Sherlock with amazement. His skin had magically healed itself after one word, magically! It couldn’t be a lie, the talking pictures, the stunning, everything was magic. John had a splitting headache, he needed to take all of this in slowly, and it was rushing at him way too fast. How, in all of his years, hadn’t he seen the slightest hint of a magical war going on?

“If there really is a magic war going on, why are humans getting killed?” He asked Sherlock, who frowned slightly into the fire.

“There is a villain, much more powerful than most of us, someone so powerful we can’t say his name out loud. You know who has an army of wizards gone bad, Death Eaters, and they all think killing muggles is fun. They kill them for no reason, and obviously one went after you.” Sherlock said quietly. John looked at Sherlock sadly; killing innocent people didn’t seem like a good trait.

“So they didn’t want anything from me?” John asked. The fire light flickered on Sherlock’s face, making him look mysterious, and he was mysterious, he was a bloody wizard, John would never fully understand him.

“No, they didn’t.” Sherlock said.

“Why am I here then?” John asked.

“I don’t know, you have nowhere else to go, and its safe here.” Sherlock shrugged. John stared into the fire, watching the logs slowly fall prey to the flames eating away at them. He felt like the logs, a fire burning near him, just waiting to catch and burn him up. He thought of his family, people he would never see again, alive and probably dead. He doubted anyone had found them yet, he wondered how long it would take for them to have a proper funeral and be buried. John felt a tear roll down his cheek, something he’s been holding in since he got here. The sun seemed to be slipping down into the horizon, making the fire the only source of light in the room. When he was kicked out of this wizard safe haven he’d have to go to one of his distant relative’s house, or an orphanage, he probably couldn’t go to college because he couldn’t pay for it; he’ll have no future… The tears started flowing more frequently, and Sherlock took notice, coming over to the couch and sitting next to John, not sure what to do.

“I would ask if you’re okay, but I know that’s a stupid question.” Sherlock muttered. John didn’t know if he trusted Sherlock, even if he liked him or not, but he had a shoulder to cry on, and at the moment that was the only thing he needed. Sherlock put his arm around John, which in any other situation would’ve been awkward, but John leaned into him, putting his head on his shoulder and letting his tears flow freely. All of the pain, the confusion, and the sadness poured out of him, like a dam breaking. He somehow knew Sherlock wouldn’t judge him; think he was weak, because he was just slammed with the most emotional trauma than most people in less than two or so hours. It was amazing to think that just a couple of hours ago he was sitting in class, bored out of his mind. He would do anything to be reading that poem for the fifth time in school. He wondered if his friends knew he was missing or not, or if anyone had noticed their absence. He doubted it. After he was done crying, he kind of wanted to get up, but he felt safe there, in Sherlock’s protective arms. He felt a little bit nervous, but he didn’t move, and neither did Sherlock. John didn’t think it was romantic, like a couple cuddling or something, but this was more a protective, I’m there for you thing, at least he thought it was. He sighed, breathing in the aroma of mildew and smoke, which somehow comforted him. After a little while, John could feel himself drifting to sleep, his eyelids getting heavier. He wanted to fall asleep right there, but he decided that might make things a little bit awkward. He pulled away from Sherlock reluctantly, whose arms fell back to his sides. He looked at John, his green eyes flickering with the fire light. He looked sad, as if he had taken that moment to completely take in his feelings about the war and the losses he has had to bear. There was definitely a tragic past about him, but he wasn’t sharing it with John, not yet at least.

“Is there anywhere for me to sleep?” John asked shyly.

“The dorms are probably all full, hospital wing is definitely full, but the couch is open.” Sherlock shrugged. John smiled halfheartedly at him, a couch would do fine, but he was kind of looking forward to having a good night sleep in a comfortable bed. Sherlock got up and went to his bed, pulling a pillow from it and taking a blanket that was hanging on the back of the couch.

“Sorry, but it’s the best I can do for now. I would offer you the bed, but my feet hang off the end of the couch and it’s pretty miserable.” Sherlock said with a small smile, handing John the pillow and blankets.

“It’s fine, thank you.” John said, positioning the pillow on the arm rest and stretching out on the couch, pulling the blanket over him and snuggling into it. Sherlock got into his own bed and flicked his wand at the fire, which went out immediately.

“Goodnight.” Sherlock muttered.

“Goodnight.” John agreed. The couch was terrible to sleep on, his back hurt already and his neck was strained. He tried to close his eyes, but would get lost in thought and open them again, staring into blackness. He knew it must sound crazy, but he wished he was back with Sherlock’s arms around him. He had felt like nothing could hurt him, wizards or ‘muggles’, he knew that Sherlock would protect him. Even though they had just met, he had saved his life and John owed him big time, but he felt like they had a connection, something different than all of the other people he’s met in his life time. His heart ached for his family, wanting to be in his own bed, in his own house, knowing if he even had the slightest nightmare his parents would rush to his side. Unfortunately he knew he could never have that again, he knew now what was really out there, and he doubted he’d ever feel fully safe again. Even so, his eyes started to close, and he drifted to a light sleep.