Methods Beyond Magic

Second Chance Situations

Sherlock wasn't looking forward to Wednesday. Not only were Wednesdays the most irritating day of the week, just because you're close to Friday yet so far, but also still recovering from whatever crappy Monday you've had, and not to mention how stupid the creators were to put a very unnecessary letter in the spelling. No, those were faults of the day, of course, but it was mostly because second block he was to have the Slytherin and Gryffindor seventh years, and not only would that bring some post quidditch tension, it would also bring Victor Trevor to his classroom, and the two of them wouldn't be able to deny each other the conversation they were both dying to avoid. Sherlock didn't want to talk to Victor, in fact, the very thought of facing him again was almost unbearable. The saddened look in his eyes as he hastily looked away, his usually cheery smile replaced by a frown, not saying a word because he knew that if he opened his mouth he might start to cry again, Sherlock hated to look at that, much less be the cause. He didn't like to cause people pain, he knew all about peer induced torment, and he knew firsthand how terrible it was to feel like everyone you've ever met hated you, but then again, there were absolutely nothing he could do to help Victor's particular dilemma. But what to say to him, how to make an excuse? Did he just say that it had to be done; he had to run away because there was no possible way they could ever be together? Or was he possibly supposed to make up an excuse, that he had suddenly remembered he had left the stove on? Pathetic, of course, but he knew that even if he had some sort of speech planned out in his head, there was no possible way he would ever be able to recite it back without messing up. In the moment everything he might say sounded wrong. So, when Wednesday finally came, Sherlock sat patiently at his desk, watching the students leave third period and waiting for the first of the seventh years to arrive. He pretended to be scribbling on some paper, making some lesson plans or something rubbish like that. In reality all he was doing was scrawling little lines on the paper, shading in some areas with ink and doodling what he could see of the Whomping Willow from his window. He couldn't see the students walking in, but when Victor was in the room, Sherlock got this sort of feeling, and he knew that it hadn't been some other person that had walked in. No, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he had a sudden desire to race from his chair, run out the door and away from it all. But of course, he could only sit there and look ever so cautiously up. Victor was indeed walking through the rows of desks, his brown hair and height evident against his classmates. He looked like he was headed to the back corner, but Sherlock made a point to scan the rest of the class as well, and didn't see what seat Victor had chosen. So he went back to adding some texture to the drawing of the tree, tapping it lightly with his wand to make it come to life, the branches whipping violently around and cracking like whips on the parchment. When finally the class was all seated, Sherlock stood up and walked around to the front of the classroom, tapping the projector (which he had finally managed to fix himself) and making a picture of a banshee appear on the screen.
"Welcome, once again, to my classroom. Today we will be learning about these beautiful creatures, can anyone tell me what they are?" he asked, turning to the class. The houses seemed to be sitting separate of each other, as if both holding resentment to the opposing quidditch team. One of the Slytherin girls raised their hand, and Sherlock nodded to her.
"It's a banshee." She said confidently.
"Yes, a banshee, very good." He agreed, his eyes flicking over to where Victor sat. He was slouched back in his seat, not looking nearly as impressive as he usually did, watching Sherlock with those blue eyes with a rather sad air to him. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt, but he couldn't do anything about it now, so he continued on with his lesson, pretending not to notice the sad boy in the back of the classroom. It was a rather awkward lesson of course, Sherlock lost his place in the lecture when he cast a look over at Victor, but he was able to get back on track eventually. The class was quiet, kind of hateful to the rest of their peers, but they participated enough to make it somewhat bearable. When the bell rang Sherlock went back over to his desk, straightening up his notes and turning off the projector with a feeble tap of his wand. He felt someone behind him, lingering among the desks, and sighed.
"I suppose you're planning on apologizing?" Sherlock muttered, turning slowly to the student who was stuffing things back into their bag.
"For what?" asked the unfamiliar Gryffindor girl, who had spilled her notes all around the floor. Sherlock looked quickly to the door, where he was just able to catch a glimpse of Victor's retreating head. So maybe he didn't want to talk after all. This was all fine and dandy with Sherlock, of course, he wasn't really in the mood to talk to Victor either, but he knew it was bound to happen. If Victor really did love him as much as he claimed, he wouldn't just leave their relationship at that, especially if the two of them still had to spend an entire year together, trapped in the same castle. So now it wasn't a question of if he would come knocking, it was when. Honestly Sherlock hated waiting, because his thoughts and ideas were able to simmer in his mind, he was able to think and rethink all of these plans, all of these speeches, but the more he thought about them, the more it sounded like he was accusing Victor of something, and he didn't want to come across disgusted. Then again, the very idea of hooking up with a student was a bit nauseating, but for the sake of Victor's self-esteem, Sherlock wasn't going to make that very obvious. It was Friday night, and Sherlock predicted that if Victor was going to make an appearance, it would probably be tonight, considering he wouldn't have to face Sherlock in class or in the hallways the next day if anything goes wrong. So Sherlock ate rather quickly in the Great Hall, as predicted Victor wasn't sitting at the Slytherin table. Sherlock ignored John's rather obvious attempts to get his attention, focusing on his chicken as the caretaker waved his hands madly through the air from the other end of the table. Finally, when Sherlock was finished with his dinner, he got up, straightened his robes, and walked down through the rows of tables, going up the stairs to his classroom. When he got there, it was empty; no Victor waiting at the door, in fact, the entire hallway seemed to be empty. It wasn't a surprise to be honest, Sherlock was pretty sure he was that only one that lived on the floor. That wasn't a bad thing; it gave him plenty of privacy in case he slept walked down the hallway in his pajamas. So Sherlock unlocked the door and sat at his desk, going over some of the homework that his second years had completed, an essay on the disarming spell. Some of the papers were actually alright, getting all of the facts, others were just pathetic, and some were downright illegible, as if they hadn't had proper handwriting lessons. Sherlock sighed, writing a big A on a paper and moving it along to the completed side, now going onto another paper. He had almost forgotten about his imminent visitor, that was until he heard a knock on the door. Sherlock took a deep breath, but looked up to see a rather familiar silhouette behind the door. It was too tall to be John, and there was no bun on top of its head, so it wasn't McGonagall either. That meant it could only be one other person.
"Come in." Sherlock called, looking back down at his papers to avoid any unnecessary eye contact. The door opened slowly and someone walked inside, that same feeling Sherlock had gotten in class radiating off the newcomer.
"Hi Professor." Victor's voice muttered. Sherlock looked up, seeing Victor standing above him. He didn't look as happy go lucky as he usually did, but obviously he had tried to make himself look presentable. His hair looked newly washed, his face had no tear streaks and his eyes weren't puffy. But there was no smile on his face, there was no light, no hope in his blue eyes, he looked broken.
"Hello Victor." Sherlock muttered, not knowing what really to do. "You look...well."
"You look beautiful." Victor agreed. A shiver went down Sherlock's spine, and he set his quill down next to the papers.
"Look, Victor, I know you..." Sherlock started, but Victor held up a hand to silence him.
"I know what I am, and I know what I did, and I'm sorry. I just hoped that maybe we could be friends again, I did like that." Victor admitted, pulling two butterbeers and a container of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans from his bag. Sherlock sighed, but nodded stiffly, sitting up straighter in his chair. A little smile of relief shone on Victor's face, taking off the caps from the bottles and handing one to Sherlock.
"I'm sorry, for running away; I know that was a bit rude." Sherlock muttered, taking the bottle from Victor with a small smile and taking a sip.
"That's alright, if I were in the same position, I would've done more than run. I would've jinxed me, pushed me in the lake. I was so sudden, and it was never my intention to be so, indiscreet, but the thrill of the quidditch game had caught me on a whirlwind, and it seemed like the perfect moment." Victor admitted. "In fact, I was going to wait for the next weekend to tell you, maybe a bit nicer, maybe not as forceful." Sherlock sighed heavily, taking another sip of butterbeer and looking up at Victor in confusion.
"It was never my intention to hurt you as much as I have. I never wanted to lose whatever friendship we had made." Sherlock admitted. Victor smiled again, and Sherlock had never noticed how truly beautiful it was until now, how his eyes lit up, how his cheeks wrinkled, how all of his teeth were so perfectly white...
"So, we can be friends again?" he asked.
"It's not like I have many other friends." Sherlock pointed out with a sort of forced laugh, swirling the butterbeer around in his bottle and taking another sip of the sweet drink.
"You've got John." Victor pointed out, his smile wavering a little bit.
"Yes, John." Sherlock agreed. "John is a great guy, but he'll never be you."
"Did you tell him, about what happened after the game?" Victor asked, his smile widening and Sherlock's heart doing an energized little flop in his chest.
"Of course not, that was something I decided he didn't need to know." Sherlock assured.
"He hates me?" Victor asked.
"Of course he does, he's bitter that you're such an amazing wizard, and such a perfect person, he told me just the other day that he wishes he could be like you so that I'd like him more." Sherlock pointed out.
"We'll, he's a good guy, he's got talents that I don't have." Victor agreed. Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little bit, trying to get a better look at Victor in the torchlight. The soft flame made his skin almost glow, which made him angelic, a beautiful creature that just wanted to be loved.
"He can mop, you can win quidditch. He can fix a record player; you can steal someone's heart." Sherlock pointed out. Victor smiled rather timidly, looking at the floor.
"Who's heart did I steal?" he asked. Sherlock sighed, leaning forward on his chair.
"I don't know yet." Sherlock admitted. Victor sighed, but nodded.
"I mean, I know it's creepy, I know I'm a student and I know it's wrong, but is there, do I have any chance?" he asked. Sherlock smiled slightly, but didn't answer, poking his bottle around.
"I'll take that as a no." Victor decided, sliding off of the table and getting to his feet. "I guess I'll just go then, if we're alright, just friends. I'm fine with that." Sherlock took a long swig of butterbeer, and set down the nearly empty bottle. Victor started to walk off, but Sherlock got to his feet so quickly that his knees bumped into the desk painfully.
"Victor, wait!" he called desperately. Victor stopped, turning around slowly, his beautiful face with a perfect smile, how could Sherlock have been so stupid, so blind? "Don't go." Sherlock muttered.
"If you insist." Victor agreed, walking a couple of paces closer. Sherlock took a deep breath, almost apprehensive to step closer, as if Victor would push him away like he had done at the lake.
"Victor, I um..." he stepped closer once more, and Victor seemed to glow even more the closer he got. "I don't know how to say this..."
"Say what?" Victor asked in a sort of whisper, a whisper of someone who couldn't believe their eyes. Sherlock's chest seemed to be collapsing in on him, his lungs were struggling just to provide air, his heart, his poor heart was pounding so heavily that Sherlock was worried Victor could hear it.
"Is it...is it wrong to give you a second chance?" Sherlock asked, taking another cautious step forward.
"It's not wrong. I'd say it's, well, necessary." Victor decided, stepping forward as well. Now he was so close Sherlock could see every little detail in his face, his dimples when he smiled, his startling, electric blue eyes, his red lips, so tempting...
"I mean, you understand, I'm sure?" Sherlock asked, reaching up timidly and touching his forefinger ever so slightly to the side of Victor's soft face. Victor just smiled, taking Sherlock's hand and pressing it on his cheek, holding it there and letting Sherlock's fingers trace the creases around his eyes as his smile widened.
"I understand just fine Sherlock, I encourage second chances." Victor agreed.
"I want one..." Sherlock breathed.
"I will give you one." Victor agreed.
"I need a second chance..." Sherlock nodded, leaning in closer, his face only inches away from Victor's, was he able to do this, was he going to do this?
"Alright." Victor agreed, not making this any easier. He was going to leave Sherlock to kiss him; he wasn't going to go in for the kill.
"Alright." Sherlock agreed, letting his lips brush Victor's ever so softly. That seemed to be enough to convince him that it was alright, that Victor was going to give him a second chance, that was surely what he needed. This was his second chance at the love he had so foolishly given up.

An owl circled the towers and columns of the Hogwarts castle, a beautiful brown owl with a letter on its leg, looking for its destination. The moonlight was shining brightly on this cloudless day, shining bright rays over the forest and the black lake. The owl swooped in towards a window, a window partially open, and sat hooting on the ledge, trying to make its receiver notice its presence. Sherlock rolled over in bed, sighing and pulling the blankets over himself, reaching towards the window to untie the letter from the owl's leg. The owl hooted, hopping up and down a little bit before flying off the way it came. Sherlock groaned, rubbing his eyes and fiddling with the letter to make the moonlight catch the writing on the envelope, To Sherlock Holmes, From John Watson. Sherlock sighed, shaking his head slightly.
"Anything important?" asked a voice next to him. Sherlock sighed, dropping the letter on the bedside table carelessly.
"No, nothing." He admitted, and rolled back over to where Victor lay.