Methods Beyond Magic

Friendship Love Triangle

    The next class he had was fifth years, which weren't all that bad of course, but they were coming in for their second class from him already, so they all knew him by name and he didn't have to make any more awkward introductions. Sherlock smiled as they walked in, getting his usual outbursts of compressed giggles, making him roll his eyes but pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. He couldn't help thinking about what John had said, about how these girls probably just wanted to flirt with him to get better grades. It made him think, of course, about what their intentions really were. Were they interested in skipping over some homework assignments in exchange for a kiss (ew), or did they actually just find him attractive? Or was Victor right in assuming that they only wanted to hook up with him for the social status it would bring? All of those options made Sherlock's stomach rumble uncomfortably, but he ignored it, looking on to the sea of expectant students and starting up is lesson. It was more on Unforgivable Curses, but this time they did a little bit out of the book, looking up definitions and spell work and all sorts of things that Sherlock could mold into the first exam. At the end of the lesson, he asked them to write an essay on which curse they think is the most illegal and why. Of course, the bland ones would go for the killing curse, ("I think the killing curse is the worst because it kills people.") how boring was that? The ones with a brain screwed on their heads would think more rationally, put together that the Cruciatus curse was worse because the pain the victim experiences can be worse than death, or it can drive them to insanity, or the Imperius curse, since it makes the victim do virtually anything the caster wants them to do. Sherlock would hate to be under the Imperius curse, he liked to make his own decisions, do as he pleased, not be on someone's magical rope the rest of his life. Thankfully though, he couldn't think of a situation where he would have to be put under the Imperius Curse, shockingly teaching jobs don't pose too much of a threat. When the class was over, everyone said goodbye and a group of second years filed in. They were new; Sherlock didn't recognize a lot of them, and they all looked rather intimidated to be in his presence. So, with introductions and stuff out of the way, Sherlock started on the lesson, showing them pictures of dragons and stuff, pointing out distinguishable markings on the hides and tails and things like that. The class was going great, the kids were volunteering, when a kid in the back, who had been looking rather pale the entire class, bent over his chair and threw up all over the floor.
"Oh, good God did he just vomit?" Sherlock exclaimed, stepping back a step in fear. The kids screamed, all rushing to the end of the classroom and huddling in a corner, leaving the poor kid alone at the desks, bending over and spitting into the pile of puke on the floor.
"Oh, well, um, that's alright, I'll just get the caretaker I suppose..." Sherlock muttered, not really knowing if the germs would stick around after he had magically removed the throw up.
"You, curly haired girl, yes, please take him down to the Hospital Wing, and you, brown haired boy, watch over the class." Sherlock decided, rushing out of the classroom. He walked swiftly down the corridor, not knowing where to find John, he could be anywhere actually, but after searching two hallways, he was relieved to hear the familiar dragging sound of that stupid plastic bucket.
"John!" Sherlock called, running after a figure at the end of the hall, totting around a mop.
"Sherlock, don't you have a class?" John asked, looking rather confused when Sherlock stopped, catching his breath.
"A kid threw up; I need your sanitary knowhow." Sherlock decided between breaths.
"Say no more." John decided, started to drag his mop down the hall at .3 miles per hour, one of the wheels spinning wildly on the stone.
"Could you possibly go, a little faster? I left the second years in there, and I don't know that they're capable of doing yet." Sherlock insisted.
"Do you see this bucket moving any faster than this? The water would spill." John defended. Sherlock sighed, pulling out his wand, evaporating the water, and levitating the bucket and the mop up the stairs.
"I hope you have plans to refill that." John muttered, hopping up alongside the mop as if he was its protective parent.
"A simple spell John, what kind of wizard are you?" Sherlock snapped.
"A lousy one, to say the least." John admitted. They made it back to the classroom quickly, where it seemed that the students were too afraid to even move from their spot. The curly haired girl and the sick boy had left, to the hospital wing presumably, and the pile of throw up still sat where it was.
"This is going to be a mess." John sighed, dragging his empty bucket over to the pile and looking down in disgust.
"Well, it's the end of the class." Sherlock shrugged. The kids muttered to each other behind him, and Sherlock sighed.
"You all, sit around on the floor and draw me your best picture of a Hungarian Horntail." He decided. The second years all looked at him in annoyance, as if trying to point out that they weren't children anymore, but they dragged their bags from the desks and collected in the back of the classroom, leaving Sherlock and John standing over in the front.
"Is this art class now?" John laughed.
"You said it would take a while!" Sherlock defended.
"I'm not telling you how to do your job. Unfortunately though, you always have something to say about the way I do mine." John admitted. Sherlock rolled his eyes; waving his wand over John's bucket and making a fresh pool of water appear inside of it.
"What can I do to help?" Sherlock asked as John dipped the mop into the water, spreading it over the puke and making a disgusting slopping sound. Sherlock covered his nose in disgust, looking away.
"Nothing much." John admitted.
"That's disgusting." Sherlock decided.
"Then go check on the Van Gogh's over there, make sure they're doing alright." John laughed.
"Fair enough." Sherlock agreed, happy for any reason to get out of that stinky, sloppy area. Just as he went over to observe his students, the bell rang, and Sherlock had to jump out of the way to avoid being trampled by all of their little legs. They seemed to be the only class that wanted to leave, for reasons very obvious. So this left only the tow of them, John was still working on cleaning up the mess (which he seemed to just be spreading it around more) and was now sprinkling powder all over. Sherlock sat on his desk, watching John work and reading the last couple of sections of the Daily Prophet.
"I saw you at lunch today." John said as he worked.
"Were you following me?" Sherlock asked with a laugh.
"No, you were late, and I just happened to look up when you entered the hall." John said.
"I feel a disagreement coming." Sherlock decided.
"You were with Victor?" John asked.
"Is that a problem?" Sherlock asked defensively.
"I thought I told you what his true intentions probably were?" John asked.
"Well, I talked to him about that." Sherlock said proudly.
"You what? How did you think that was possibly a good idea?" John asked.
"He said that it was never his intention to take advantage of me, that he wouldn't hurt me at all. In fact, he said that when we first met, he thought I was a student, not a professor." Sherlock insisted.
"That sounds like something someone in a romance movie would say." John decided. Sherlock laughed, shaking his head.
"Are you saying Victor and I are in a romance movie?" Sherlock asked.
"No, just commenting." John admitted. "You're not, are you?"
"Do you see a camera crew?" Sherlock insisted.
"I mean, there's nothing, more than friendship is there?" John asked.
"I imagine that if that answer was yes, you'd hurl that mop at me." Sherlock guessed. John straightened up, looking genuinely worried.
"Is it a yes?" he asked.
"No, of course not. I may be ignoring Victor's age for the sake of friendship, but you're talking about something differently entirely. I would never have a thing with a student, I would never dream of it." Sherlock insisted.
"Well, from what I see, Victor seems to bat his eyelashes at you almost as much as the seventh year girls do." John laughed.
"You're such a lair; you've never even seen Victor before." Sherlock insisted. "You just want me to say something that would help your case."
"Well, I'm not judging anyone's sexuality or anything, but if he does make any...advances...get out of there as fast as you can." John suggested. Sherlock could only laugh, not able to process what he was hearing.
"You think Victor fancies me?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't know what this kid is up to, I just don't think it's good." John decided.
"He thinks the same way about you. He thinks you make up things, rumors and such, to prevent Victor and I to hang out." Sherlock pointed out.
"Oh, so you talked to him about me?" John asked.
"We were on the topic." Sherlock admitted.
"So he doesn't like me, I don't like him, and you like us both. Sounds like a friendship love triangle." John decided, mopping up whatever was left of the throw up, but doing a very effective job of cleaning it.
"Ever think that maybe we could all just get along, resentments aside? I mean, you haven't even met the kid, he's really nice." Sherlock insisted.
"Is he dreamy?" John asked in a girly voice.
"I mean, I could see how girls could like him, but I'm not attracted to him myself, no." Sherlock assured.
"Good." John decided that.
"That was what you were waiting to hear, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked.
"Just checking up on my pal Sherlock, making sure you're not getting in over your head." John shrugged, putting his mop back in the filthy water with accomplishment.
"And it seems like your floor is as clean as your intentions, a win-win I suppose." John decided with a smile.
"You amaze me John." Sherlock sighed.
"How's that?" John asked.
"I could never think of a muggle way to clean up throw up, yet here you are." Sherlock shrugged, leading John over to the door.
"It's more sanitary in my mind." John decided.
"Yes well, you have fun with that puke water." Sherlock agreed.
"Aren't you going to eat?" John asked.
"Surprisingly, after a display like that, I've rather lost my appetite." Sherlock admitted.
"Ah well, fair enough, have a nice night Sherlock." John decided, moving on down the hall.
"You to John." Sherlock agreed, closing the door and facing his empty classroom once more. Sherlock wasn't just lying about losing his appetite; he was genuinely disgusted by what a mess his classroom floor had become, so he went over to his room and sat on the bed, watching the window ledge in anticipation of a visit from Billy. Maybe he should write to his parents, tell them how successful his new job of teaching is going. Even though he was never really close to his parents at school, both of them had attended Hogwarts and sent both their children through the castle as well, and they'd probably be thrilled to hear about what was going on in his life. So Sherlock dug out some parchment and a quill, writing to them about how his classes were going fine, how the kids liked him, and how the staff more or less accepted him. He mentioned new friends, but didn't really specify that the only two people he was on talking basis with were the caretaker and a seventh year. It was kind of a dorky line up if you really think about it. Nevertheless, Sherlock folded the letter and wrote his parent's names on it, knowing Billy was bound to know where their house was from constant trips to and from the castle during Sherlock's school years. In the end, the sky was getting dark and there was still no sign of Billy, so Sherlock decided he'd go down to the staff room, so if anyone likable was sitting around there, maybe score some more decorations for his classroom. So he lumbered down the empty corridor, thankfully not running into either Victor or John, for fear of what the other might do if he found one of them. It definitely felt weird, having to practically tip toe around each of them, as if spending time with the other was some terrible crime, when in fact he simply just had two friends. When he got to the staff room he heard talking, and walked in to see Professors McGonagall, Sprout, Snape, and Flitwick all sitting around the table, sipping tea. Professor Bins was also present, but he was drifting over towards the back, his eyes closed, getting blown softy by the air coming out of an open window.
"Hello Sherlock." McGonagall said with a smile.
"Hello, everyone." Sherlock muttered. They all exchanged greetings, which was kind of awkward. They had always called him 'Holmes' when he had been in school, and now they were all using his first name and pressuring him to do the same. Of course, he was never going to call Flitwick 'Filius' and the very idea of using Snape's first name again was almost cringe worthy.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" Sprout asked, getting up and pouring Sherlock a cup of tea before he could even respond. Well, that held him to the staff room for as long as it took to drink a cup of tea. So Sherlock slid into a chair next to Flitwick (who had to prop himself up on some pillows in order to see over the table) and thanked Professor Sprout for the tea.
"It's weird to be here so casually." Sherlock decided, looking around the staff room, the equivalent to the house common rooms.
"Well, you ought to get used to it, because I feel you've got a long future of teaching ahead." McGonagall decided.
"You probably say that to every one of the teachers the come, every year. I'm sure you'll say the next year to my replacement." Sherlock guessed.
"That's not very positive." Sprout decided.
"You've known me for seven years Professor, I've never been positive." Sherlock pointed out.
"Come exam time you were." Snape muttered, stirring his tea very slowly with a small spoon.
"Well, I was positive because I was prepared." Sherlock pointed out.
"I remember you when you were a little first year, your hair bigger than your head, whining about how impractical learning about famous wizards rather than casting spells yourself." McGonagall pointed out.
"Don't bring up that idiot boy; I've changed since first year." Sherlock insisted, sipping his tea to avoid scowling.
"And now look at him, sitting in the staff room." Sprout said proudly.
"They grow up so fast." Sherlock agreed.
"Hardly had anytime to grow up." Snape muttered.
"Now Severus, be nice, you started when you were young as well, somewhere in your twenties." Flitwick pointed out.
"What, eighty years ago?" Sherlock muttered, somewhat to himself, but McGonagall started to laugh and Snape looked as if he were running multiple curses through his head, planning out which one would be most effective to curse him with.
"How was your last class?" McGonagall asked, trying to break things up. Sherlock was silent, but then realized that she was talking to him, and hastily put his cup down in its saucer.
"Oh, well, some kid threw up, so it was cut a bit short." Sherlock admitted.
"Couldn't stand the sight of you much longer I presume." John's voice said from behind him. Sherlock turned in his seat to see the caretaker strolling down to the seat across from Sherlock, saying a polite hello to all of the professors and smiling at Sherlock.