Methods Beyond Magic

Qualified Quidditch Qualms

                  

When Sherlock first found out about the quidditch match, it was through Victor, of course. It was supposed to be the greatest game of the year, so everyone said, even though it was only the first match. Gryffindor vs Slytherin, the two ultimate teams, with new coming stars and returning veterans on both teams, it was predicted to be a predictor for the upcoming Quidditch cup. Honestly, Sherlock was so relieved to hear about something else, other than his inexistent love life, so he nearly forgot that he didn't care the slightest about quidditch. In fact, if Victor hadn't been playing in the upcoming game, Sherlock wouldn't have attended at all. Too many people, too much noise, all caring about the athletic kids throwing a ball around in midair, it was a pathetic sport really. But he smiled and nodded when the kids asked him for his predictions, saying that as he hadn't seen either of the teams play before, he was so far unable to take sides just yet. Of course, he wasn't going to tell the very rowdy, aggressive Gryffindors that he was going to be favoring Slytherin, and he wasn't going to give the Slytherins the satisfaction of telling them that he was routing for them. He was only cheering for Slytherin because Victor was on that team, and Victor deserved a victory for all of the hard work he had been putting in. Sherlock hardly saw him outside of class anymore, but if he looked off in the distance to the quidditch pitch, there always seemed to be a solitary figures swerving through the goal posts. Sherlock always told himself that he could see the form of Victor on the broom, he could tell by his posture and flight style, but that was a lie. In fact, that could probably be the giant squid on a broom and Sherlock wouldn't have noticed the difference. John didn't seem to be routing for either side, evidently, but had become rather clingy once more in the absence of Victor, or, more likely, the presence of the truth. He had seemed to stop tiptoeing around the fact that he was a squib, in fact, he might've brought it up every conversation, casually mentioning that he had to clean up after the muddy Hufflepuff team all by hand because he couldn't use magic, or whining that he locked himself out of his room and that he had to flag down a teacher to open it via magic. Either way, Sherlock didn't comment, he simply nodded and carried on the conversation, as if it were a totally normal thing to say. They hadn't brought up the whole squib thing since the rather awkward confrontation with the record player, not formally at least. Sherlock didn't really feel comfortable asking John such a personal question again, especially if they were going to get all deep with their emotions and have to shake hands again. That was miserable; a hug would've been less awkward just because John wouldn't have the opportunity to see Sherlock's blushing face. Victor, however, loved to bring the whole squib thing up, when he had the opportunity to. Thankfully though, in the rare occasion Victor wasn't practicing quidditch, Sherlock didn't give him many opportunities to talk about John's magical lacking. In fact, he hadn't even told Victor the truth yet, thinking that it would be an invasion of John's privacy. And once Victor got a hold of the truth, eventually the whole school would find out, and that would be a bit of a catastrophe. So, on the evening before the match, after four long class periods of people chatting excitedly and placing 'discreet' bets on who was going to win, Sherlock trudged down to the Great Hall for some dinner. John, he noticed, was absent, probably off cleaning up some mess Peeves had made, which was rather unfortunate for him, considering Peeves wouldn't stop just because the little old caretaker yelled at him. So, when he was done being yelled over by Snape and Sprout (both arguing very loudly over who was to win the match), Sherlock walked down the quidditch pitch, where he was sure he would find Victor. There was no practice tonight, it was the calm before the storm as the quidditch players so poetically put it, but sure enough, there was a solitary figure soaring through the air, silhouetted by the dying sunlight. Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets, smiling to himself as the figure zoomed around the goalposts, throwing the quaffle through the middle open and diving straight down to retrieve it before it hit the ground. Sherlock entered the stadium, the great dome of bleachers and grass, and watched as Victor practiced by himself, still not aware of his presence. So he settled himself on the bleachers, watching for a little bit before finally Victor spotted him as he was taking another lap around the field. Sherlock thought that he could see his smile from across the pitch, but then again, he was sure he was just imagining it. Victor flew right up to the bleachers, his robes just inches from touching the benches.
"Hello Professor, what are you doing out here so late?" Victor asked.
"I could ask you the same thing." Sherlock pointed out.
"Practicing, of course." Victor insisted, throwing the quaffle at Sherlock, who caught it with a small yelp.
"It might help more if there was a keeper." Sherlock pointed out.
"Are you volunteering?" Victor asked with a laugh.
"God no, nothing like that." Sherlock assured with a slight smile.
"I assume you'll be routing for Slytherin?" Victor guessed.
"I'm routing for you, not Slytherin. The fact that you're a part of their team is irrelevant." Sherlock shrugged.
"Interesting theory I suppose." Victor shrugged, his broom moving slightly up with his shoulders.
"Are you nervous?" Sherlock asked.
"I can't really sit still; I imagine the rest to the school is the same." Victor guessed.
"You should see my classes, they're practically quivering. Especially when the Slytherins and the Gryffindors share the class, I practically had to stop a fist fight between two over prideful first years." Sherlock admitted.
"Well, I hope it's a good match, and I hope we come out on top. I don't want to have to face the wrath of those idiot lions again." Victor admitted.
"Gryffindors are rather proud of winning, and they're not afraid to show it. But they're usually a good bunch of kids." Sherlock shrugged.
"And Slytherin's not?" Victor asked.
"Well, they don't have the best reputation." Sherlock admitted.
"You're saying I'm evil?" Victor laughed.
"You don't fit the stereotype. No, you're more ambitious than evil." Sherlock decided.
"Well, that's good to know." Victor decided, looking around at the quidditch pitch nervously. "I like it a lot better when no one's watching."
"I'm watching." Sherlock pointed out.
"Well, I didn't know that, did I?" Victor laughed.
"I can leave, if you want me to." Sherlock decided.
"No, no of course not, I like you watching me." Victor assured.
"That's not a sentence you hear every day." Sherlock laughed.
"I'm not a stalker, or rather I don't want you to be my stalker...I'm not really going to finish that sentence." Victor decided.
"Probably a good idea." Sherlock agreed with a laugh, smiling up at the boy.
"Want to levitate a couple of these balls for me to go after? Works good with reflexes, diving, all that stuff." Victor shrugged. Sherlock looked uncertainly at the red leather ball in his hand.
"I don't think I'd be particularly good at that." he muttered, throwing it rather crookedly back to Victor.
"That was fine right there." Victor insisted. "And trust me; you'll throw it a lot better than when it's dropped in midair."
"Alright then, but don't be expecting much from me." Sherlock insisted with a smile.
"You're a Professor; I have no choice but to expect the best." Victor pointed out.
"In my defense, I was the only one that would take the job." Sherlock defended, getting to his feet. Victor threw him the quaffle once more, which was surprisingly difficult to catch considering the chasers all made fabulous one armed catches and throws. Victor flew off to the center of the field while Sherlock moseyed his way down the bleachers, charming the quaffle so that it would follow his wand movements and making it hover a little bit in the air beside him.
"You ready?" he called up to Victor, who gave a thumb up. Sherlock sighed, making the ball shoot straight into the air, hurtling right at him.
"Got to make it harder than that!" Victor insisted, flying to the goal posts and sinking the quaffle through the middle post.
"Sorry!" Sherlock called, making the ball shoot up once more and soar towards the opposite end of the field. Victor sped up rapidly, barreling towards the now falling quaffle and grabbing it out of the air, shooting it through the left hoop and circling around to retrieve another. Sherlock, it turned out, was actually quite good at this job. Sometimes he made it a little bit too easy for Victor, like shooting it at him or just making it hover through the air. Other times he might have taken Victor's skills for granted and made it virtually impossible for the poor boy to get to the quaffle, making it speed to the ground or do loopy loops in the air as Victor tried to snatch it out of the air. In the end, Sherlock was running the length of the pitch making the quaffle bounce around from invisible players, going right over Victor's head and circling his broom a couple of times before he was finally able to grab hold and score through the middle post. This time though, Victor collected the quaffle and landed in the midfield, his broom in one hand and the quaffle in the other, a large smile on his face.
"You did amazing!" he decided as Sherlock walked over, breathing heavy and wiping the sweat off of his brow.
"As did you, that was some real fancy flying you did, you'll be fine tomorrow." Sherlock insisted.
"You think?" Victor asked with a curious twinkle in his blue eyes.
"Of course, you're easily the best chaser around here; you could play professionally from what I just saw." Sherlock assured. Victor just laughed, ruffling his hair up a little bit and looking nervously at the ground.
"That's a long way away. Right now I want to be the best in the school, not in the world." Victor muttered.
"With more practice, you could easily be both." Sherlock assured.
"Stop, you're making me hope!" Victor laughed, throwing the quaffle quickly at Sherlock. The poor professor didn't even have time to react, and it caught him right in the stomach.
"That's what I get for paying you a complement then; I guess I won't do that again." Sherlock muttered between hasty coughs.
"No, no it's fine, I mean, complement away." Victor muttered.
"I'm feeling a bit braver now that I've got the quaffle in my hands." Sherlock decided, holding up the ball awkwardly.
"Accio Quaffle!" Victor exclaimed, and the ball flew right back in his hands. "What was that?" he asked with a smug smile.
"Oh shush, now you're not even getting a complement, you'll hurt me." Sherlock laughed.
"What were you going to say?" Victor asked.
"Oh, nothing..." Sherlock sighed, staring to walk away with a teasing smile on his face.
"Oh come on, help a poor boy's self-esteem, you can hold the quaffle if it makes you feel better, I won't throw it at you." Victor assured, sounding like a child desperate for attention.
"Well, I was going to say that Gryffindor doesn't stand a chance, but then again, if I made my opinion clear I'm sure I'd get murdered or something like that." Sherlock decided.
"I wouldn't let you get murdered." Victor assured.
"Oh, there's a relief." Sherlock laughed.
"I'm serious, if someone wanted to hurt you, they'd have to go through me." Victor insisted.
"What if you were the one that wanted to hurt me? Would you have to go through yourself?" Sherlock asked.
"I wouldn't ever hurt you Sherlock, I wouldn't dream of it." Victor assured, his crystal blue eyes dead serious.
"That quaffle says otherwise." Sherlock decided with a smile.
"Oh come on, it wasn't my fault you weren't paying attention!" Victor debated, jogging to catch up to Sherlock, who still hadn't stopped walking. So they walked up to the castle, Victor saying a nervous goodnight and leaving Sherlock to walk up to his classroom alone.

That Morning Sherlock didn't enjoy breakfast very much. The Great Hall was alive with students, some in quidditch robes, force feeding themselves eggs and pumpkin juice. Others were wearing their school colors, some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had even borrowed some of the house gear from their favoring side, such as scarves and ties. Snape was looking rather nervous as well, even though he wasn't playing Sherlock knew that as head of Slytherin house, he was bound to be a little bit apprehensive of seeing how his team squared off with the Gryffindors.
"Are you ready for the game?" Sherlock asked him, just to be annoying.
"I'm always excited to see the Gryffindors lose." Snape agreed with a smile.
"Well, what if they win?" Sherlock asked, dipping his pancakes into his pile of syrup and swirling them around.
"They won't win; my team is stronger than ever." Snape decided.
"I'm not picking sides." Sherlock decided.
"Of course you are. I've noticed a pattern, only Slytherins cheer on Slytherins, the rest of the school seems to be extremely biased to them." Snapedecided with a sigh.
"Well, they're not exactly rays of sunshine, are they?" Sherlock pointed out.
"They are what they need to be. And right now, they need to be winners." Snape decided.
"You sound like an over passionate soccer mom." Sherlock laughed, and with that he walked over to the other end of the table, where John was just starting on some French toast.
"Hello Jonathan." Sherlock said with a smile, putting his hands on the back of John's neck and pretending to asphyxiate him.
"Don't ever call me that again, that's disgusting." John decided.
"Are you going to the match?" Sherlock asked.
"How could I not, I've been hearing so much about this game that I feel like I have to." John insisted.
"Well, you don't necessarily have to." Sherlock shrugged.
"Are you?" John asked, craning his neck to see if Sherlock was still standing there.
"Yes, I am." Sherlock agreed, smiling a little bit to see a small line of syrup clinging to John's lips.
"Going to cheer on Victor?" John muttered in a bitter tone.
"He'd probably kill me if I didn't." Sherlock laughed.
"Sounds like a win-win to me." John decided.
"Oh, wow, that makes me feel appreciated." Sherlock laughed, slapping John lightly on the head.
"Hey, cut it out, it took me a while to get my hair combed down today." John snapped.
"Aw, does little Johnny want to look good in front of his friends?" Sherlock asked in a baby voice.
"Stop with the nicknames, you're killing me." John insisted, finishing off the last of his breakfast and pushing out his chair.
"Want to go down the pitch together?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, it's not time yet, is it?" John asked, looking around to see the quidditch players all getting up leave. "Oh, I suppose it is." Sherlock watched as Victor got up from the Slytherin table, wearing his green Slytherin robes, and glanced up at the staff table, to where Sherlock usually sat. Obviously he hadn't noticed Sherlock over at the other end, because he just looked away and walked alone down to the pitch, tapping his leg nervously with his wand as he walked.
"I can't imagine how nervous he must be." Sherlock muttered.
"Who, Victor?" John asked.
"Ya, I know he's really scared for today's match." Sherlock agreed.
"Who told you that?" John asked rather defensively.
"Snape." Sherlock snapped with a frown.
"I didn't really think Snape was much of a gossiper." John muttered.
"I talked to Victor of course, he told me." Sherlock insisted.
"Oh, see that makes a lot more sense." John decided.
"You're such an idiot." Sherlock laughed.
"That's why you hang out with me." John agreed.
"I don't hang out with you, you more follow me around." Sherlock insisted, starting his way down to the Entrance hall.
"Hey, you walked to my seat." John defended.
"Guilty." Sherlock agreed.