Methods Beyond Magic

Let The Record Show

                  

His luggage was sitting outside, as if John hadn't wanted to invade Sherlock's privacy or something. So Sherlock levitated his trunk and broomstick into the room, carrying the empty cage with his free hand. The classroom was empty, of course, except for the familiar rows of desks and chairs that were always there. Sherlock didn't have any posters or anything to liven up the classroom, just some ink, parchment, and quills for his desk. It looked rather sad, being so lonely, but he'd get some creature skeletons or some rare plants to spice the place up a bit. He remembered being a student, sitting alone in the back corner of the desks, taking feverish notes and absorbing every word the teacher said. Stereotypical nerd, of course, but now he was the teacher himself, and that was the weirdest concept, one even his own genius brain couldn't wrap itself around. So Sherlock dragged his things up a small staircase in the back, going through the empty office and through yet another door, into yet another empty room. This one, however, had some necessary furniture, such as a bed with multicolored curtains, a dresser with a large mirror on top and small desk, as if he would need such a thing when his office was literally a door away. There was also an attached bathroom, so he didn't have to use the public ones, and a cold fireplace in the corner. Sherlock sighed, dropping his luggage on the bed and unzipping it. Thankfully he had put an extension charm on the trunk, so that it fit all of his clothes, books, and even his caldron, should he need it. He still felt like he was packing for school, with all his potion kits and star charts and textbooks. The only thing that he knew he had to take with him had been his Wizard Chess set, which was like normal muggle chess except with very violent pieces that moved around the board and yelled at the opponents with vulgar language. Although he never had anyone to play with, Sherlock had always taken his chess set, in case he happened to make a friend and they wanted to play. Of course, he figured out a way to play by himself, by simply making the pieces on the other side figure out their own strategy. But then again, the pieces never worked very well together, and if they weren't attacking each other over the safest spots, they were making very bad plays and messing up their whole routine by focusing too much on trash talk. It felt very lonely without dorm mates, even if his fellow Ravenclaws never talked to him, it made him feel a little bit less alone when he listened to their conversations about what they did over the summer and their quidditch team predictions. Sherlock looked over at his broomstick doubtfully. Honestly, he didn't know why he even bothered to pack it; it wasn't like he would ever ride that thing voluntarily. His parents had bought it for him when he got to second year, expecting him to fly it regularly and possibly play on the quidditch team. But, ironically, when Sherlock first flew, he found that he was actually petrified of heights, and the idea of flying on a thin stick of wood hundreds of feet in the air really didn't appeal to him very much. Maybe he just brought it out of force of habit, or maybe this year was the year he tried to teach himself. Or maybe, no, Victor was undoubtedly too busy to teach Sherlock how to fly. And of course, that boy wouldn't even care about Sherlock from now on; he was just being polite on the train, not liking the silence any more than Sherlock had. They weren't friends or anything, it was impossible for Sherlock to have friends, especially with a student. He'd be as alone as he always was in school, except maybe he would be on conversational levels with the other staff members. That wouldn't be terrible, but of course, they'd all pity him as much as they had when he was in school, so they'd probably go out of their way to talk to him. Sherlock hated pity, when you pity someone you feel like you're above them, and Sherlock wanted everyone to know that he was superior. Even worse was when people actively go out of their way to engage in conversation, because you know that whatever you say, no matter how interesting or how entertaining, they wouldn't care. They secretly despise talking to you, and they long to go join their friends in their pointless conversations about quidditch and the upcoming potions exam. And that was obviously Victor's position as well, he couldn't care less about how Sherlock's summer had gone, or if he was looking forward to teaching this year, he just thought Sherlock as someone better to talk to than rainbow hair girl. With that in mind, Sherlock swished his wand and sent all of his things to the dressers, the clothes folding themselves, the socks joining with their matches, and all of the miscellaneous items collecting on the top of the desk. Not bad, for a professor. Sherlock smiled, still not used to calling himself that, it seemed really odd to be a professor when he had been forced to obey them for seven years of his life. With that he changed quickly into his pajamas, pushing his dirty clothes under the bed in an attempt to keep his living quarters clean, and lay down in the bed. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, the familiar stone ceiling, listening to the soft rustling of the trees in the Forbidden Forrest and the sounds of owls cooing through the open windows. He was back at Hogwarts. He was back home.