Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Broken Broomsticks
Chapter 1: An Unlikely Friend
Sherlock Holmes was a very strange boy, indeed. First of all, he had a penchant for figuring out a person just by looking at them. Second, he was extremely curious. Of course, it's not unusual for boys to be curious, but young Holmes was abnormally curious. For example, he would often take mice that the cat had killed, dissect them, and take meticulous notes about their anatomy. Thirdly, and perhaps most unusual of all, he was a wizard.
Sherlock was ecstatic the day his letter arrived. He wasn't sure if Hogwarts would let him in, even though his stinky brother Mycroft had been accepted. So much was his longing for school that he often dressed up in his brother's robes and dashed about the house pretending to explore the castle. There was one problem, however. The list of school supplies stated that each student may have an owl, a cat, or a toad. Sherlock owned none of these, nor did he want one. The one animal he did own, in his opinion, was far superior to any other. He had a pet hedgehog, named Hogarth. Hogarth was his birthday gift last year. His parents didn't want him to get too attached, like he would if he had a dog, and they thought maybe the creature would get Sherlock to stop talking to that skull of his. Sherlock wasn't sure how strict Hogwarts was going to be about pets, but he didn't want anything to happen to his spiky friend. The answer came to him quickly as he thought of Mycroft's old transfiguration textbooks, which he happened to have played with that afternoon. Didn't he just see something about Cross-Species Switch charms? Sherlock began searching through shelves of books to find the right spell, hoping to master it in time for school.
The morning before he left for school, he babbled all through breakfast. Imagine all the new spells and charms to learn! And a whole new library! Mummy and Daddy were proud, but Mycroft sulked. Now he had to put up with his baby brother at home and at school. He had just been made a prefect, and didn't want Sherlock to distract him from his responsibilities. At long last, the Holmes family set off for Diagon Alley to buy Sherlock's wand, robes, and textbooks. Sherlock bee lined for Ollivander's Wand Shop. Finally he could stop nicking Mycroft's wand and have one of his own! A few minutes and one broken shelf later, Sherlock came out of the store, beaming.
"Eleven inches, oak, dragon heartstring core, unyielding," he said, showing off his wand to his parents. The grip felt perfect, as if the wand was meant for his hand. It seemed to hum with anticipation. Or perhaps that was just Sherlock himself?
After spending a small fortune on school supplies for both boys, the Holmes's found their way to King's Cross Station. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had been to see the Hogwarts Express. The first time was when Mycroft left for school. Within a few moments of arriving, Sherlock had loudly declared which families had domestic troubles. After that, his parents made him wait at home, afraid he would make some rude observation about the other witches and wizards. Now it was his turn to ride the massive red engine. After a hug for his tearful mum and a handshake to his father, Sherlock climbed onto the train.
He found the nearest open compartment and ducked inside. Quickly he opened his carry-on bag and carefully pulled out a small pincushion-like object. The object trembled and unrolled to reveal Sherlock's hedgehog! Sherlock reached in his pocket and retrieved a carrot for Hogarth to munch on. Now it was time to get to work and use his wand for the first time. He pulled out his wand and cleared his throat, recalling the spell he memorized. It had to be a spell because he did not have the proper ingredients for a potion. Sherlock took a deep breath and raised his wand.
The train lurched forward. Suddenly the door to the compartment slid open and a boy around Sherlock's age entered. He was very tan and Sherlock knew at once that he had just come from holiday.
"How was Egypt?" Sherlock asked.
"It was really great," the boy said before realizing he had never met the dark haired boy across from him. "Wait, how did you know I'd been to Egypt?"
"Tan lines, fingernails, haircut, and socks. My name is Sherlock Holmes. And you would be?"
"Um, Greg. Nice to meet you." He held out his hand and Sherlock took it cautiously.
"Now, if you please, stay over there and try not to breathe too loud. I'm trying to transfigure my hedgehog," Sherlock stated.
"Into what?" Greg asked, but instead of an answer Sherlock aimed his wand at Hogarth.
"Mogrifans homagastula!" Sherlock cried.
Hogarth shuddered and gave a squeak, then started swelling rapidly. His spines shrank, his body elongated, and his tiny limbs stretched. He kept growing until he was nearly Sherlock's size. Sherlock, fascinated, looked closely and saw Hogarth's fur replaced with skin, beady eyes replaced with proper eyes, and a snout replaced with a face! A boy sat staring at Greg and Sherlock precisely where the hedgehog once was.
"Merlin's beard!" Greg muttered, shocked.
"Well, that was not quite the result I was expecting. Hogarth, can you speak?" Sherlock studied the boy intently. He sat with a slight hunch and had disheveled blond hair. He blinked several times then turned to look at Sherlock.
"Could you please stop calling me Hogarth?" the boy said, slightly irritated.
"Oh, sorry. What should I call you?" Sherlock asked.
"I've been trying to tell you for ages now," the boy explained, "My name is John. And could I get some robes?" He shivered and rubbed his arms.
"Right, sorry. I don't speak hedgehog. My robes would be too long, but Greg looks to be about your size. Do you have any to spare?"
Greg was still staring at John, eyes wide and mouth agape. Silently he stood up and rummaged through his trunk. "Here, have these," he said, tossing the robes at John.
Sherlock spent the rest of the ride interrogating John. John seemed glad enough to be able to finally communicate effectively. He seemed impressed ("Amazing!") at Sherlock's ability to infer a person's history by the state of their robes.
For the most part, Greg sat staring out the window. He asked a few questions but flinched every time John looked at him as if John might suddenly transform into something terrifying. When the trolley came by, Sherlock bought chocolate frogs and licorice wands for himself and John. He nearly forgot Greg was there, but managed to buy him a snack, too. The Holmes's were a relatively well-off family, so Sherlock had considerable spending money. It was nearly the end of their journey when Sherlock came across the flaw in his plan.
"How are they going to let you in? You're not a student. You don't even have a wand!" Sherlock said to John. "Surely there must be some way to trick them?"
"I don't know, but I don't have anywhere else to go. I might as well go along with it," John replied.
Chapter 2
The Sorting Dilemma
Sherlock, John, Greg, and the other first- years gazed wide-eyed up at the castle of Hogwarts. As they entered the massive gates, a tall, stern looking wizard greeted them.
"Attention, please! You are about to enter the Great Hall where you will be sorted into your Houses; Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin. This is the first time you will meet your classmates, so needless to say that your very best behavior is expected. Follow me." The wizard turned sharply and led the crowd into the Great Hall.
The Great Hall was an enormous room with four long tables crowded with students. At the far end was a table where older witches and wizards sat, presumably teachers. Sherlock looked up and saw that there appeared to be no ceiling. Upon closer inspection he saw that it was an illusion meant to look as if there were no ceiling. Sherlock recalled Mycroft saying something about it once. He looked around for his brother, searching for the Slytherin table. Amongst the sea of black hats and green embroidery he saw Mycroft, staring longingly at the table where the feast would soon appear.
Sherlock wasn't paying attention when the crowd stopped and he ran into the wizard in front of him. The stern wizard from before stood next to a stool, upon which sat a battered old hat. A seam in the hat opened wide and the hat began to sing:
Here we are in these walls of stone
Filled with doors and chambers still unknown
But before you can begin exploring
We must find to which house you are belonging
If like Gryffindor you behave
You must have nerve, be daring and brave
If Hufflepuff is right for you
You must be loyal, just, and true
If in Ravenclaw you think you'll fit
You should treasure knowledge, learning, and wit
Or perhaps Slytherin would fit you best
Where cunning and ambition raise you above the rest
"Sort our students!" the Founders said
All I need to do is take a peek inside your head!
Everyone applauded the Sorting Hat's song. The wizard held up a scroll and read the first name on it.
"Aloica, Alexandra!" the wizard called out.
A small red headed girl crept out from the crowd and approached the stool. The wizard gave her the hat. The girl sat on the stool and timidly pulled it over her head.
The hat shouted "HUFFLEPUFF!"
She jumped and ran quickly to the black and gold Hufflepuff table. The applause had barely subsided when the wizard called the next name, "Marissa, Bufka!"
"Oh no," Sherlock whispered, turning to John. "You don't have a last name, do you?"
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat announced.
"No, I don't suppose I do. It would be pretty suspicious if all she said was 'John'. I can't use your name. Got any ideas?"
"Davis, Dan!" the witch called.
"Seven. Do you like fancy names? No? Okay then, four. How do you feel about alliteration?" Sherlock asked.
"RAVENCLAW!" roared the hat.
"Sherlock I'm not even sure what that means, so I'm going to say no," John replied.
"How do you know he's even going to be on the roster?" Greg said from behind them as the wizard called out someone with the last name of Gruett.
Sherlock ignored him but John gave him a nod.
"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat declared.
"I've narrowed it down to two. Harris or Watson?" Sherlock said.
"Holmes, Sherlock!" the wizard said, before Sherlock was able to hear John's answer.
Sherlock approached the stool, the weight of everyone's eyes suddenly upon him. His stomach shifted nervously. He never gave the results of his Sorting much thought. Do I want to be in Slytherin with Mycroft? Or would Ravenclaw be more fitting? What if the hat messes up and puts me in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff? What if I do belong in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff?
He pulled the hat over his dark curls. He held his breath.
"RAVENCLAW!" the hat cried.
Sherlock exhaled. He hopped off the stool and walked over to the table to meet his new peers. He found an open seat between a first year and an upperclassman wearing a bronze and blue tie.
The wizard called the next name on the list, "Lestrade, Gregory!"
When the boy from the train was sorted into Gryffindor, Sherlock turned his attention to the students around him. He was rather pleased with what he observed. Students in Ravenclaw were known for their intelligence, and most of his classmates seemed to adhere to that description. A few were more on the creative side of intelligence than actual knowledge. No one would question him when he wanted to study or read instead of socializing. He had never been very good at making friends.
Friends.
His mind turned to John. He swiveled in his seat to get a better look at the remaining unsorted first years. At first Sherlock didn't see him, and he started to panic. Was he already Sorted? Did they skip him? What if they came and took him away? Then he spotted John's sandy blond hair through the crowd. John was nervously shifting side to side. He glanced over his shoulder and met Sherlock's gaze.
"Watson, John!" the wizard called.
Sherlock released a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Somehow the school must have known it had gained another student. It also must have known what that student's preferred name is.
John placed the hat on his head. Sherlock secretly hoped he would be in Ravenclaw with him, but John seemed more like a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.
"GRYFFINDOR!" said the hat, proving Sherlock right.
After the remaining few first years were sorted, an old witch with long white hair and flowing robes (Headmistress Ambrosius, Sherlock thought), approached the podium and said simply, "Let the feast begin!"
Chapter 3: EanSwee
From very early on in the school year, it was apparent that academics suited Sherlock much better than recreation did. He was exceptionally skilled at Potions, consistently brewing the best potions in the class. The Potions teacher, Professor Vena often commented that it was a shame Sherlock hadn't been Sorted into Slytherin. Vena was the Head of Slytherin House, and would like nothing more than for her own House to win the House cup. The only class Sherlock didn't like was Astronomy. In fact he found the endless charts, models, and star gazing extremely boring.
During breaks when he wasn't studying or tinkering with a new potion, Sherlock kept company with his closest companion, John. It was on one such break that the two sat under a large beech tree, John enjoying a bottle of pumpkin juice and Sherlock examining a line of ants marching up the tree's trunk. The sky was far from its usual dreary grey; the sun was shining through sparse clouds of bright white, revealing azure skies. It was one of the last nice days before winter took hold.
A group of six fifth years strode into an open section of lawn with broomsticks and a large, red ball. One of them made three hoops of permanent smoke on either side of some predetermined field. They divided up, three to a team, and mounted their brooms.
"Sherlock, what are they doing?" John asked Sherlock. The players began zooming through the air, catching the ball and throwing it through a hoop.
Sherlock barely looked up from the parade of ants. "A form of Quidditch, a popular wizarding sport."
"Quidditch? That's what that is? I heard some people talking about it in the common room last night. Apparently the tryouts are coming up, and Gryffindor needs some new talent. Do you reckon it would be worth it?" John asked, turning to Sherlock, who was now enlarging the ants for further examination.
"From what little I've seen, it can be a brutal sport," Sherlock said. "Could be dangerous."
Several weeks later
"Sherlock, you are coming to the game tonight, aren't you?" John asked Sherlock one night aftert dinner. "It's the first game of the season, against Slytherin. Natalie, our Captain, says we have a have a good chance at the Cup this year. Some of their best players left last year and they haven't been able to train new ones yet."
Sherlock was in a foul mood because the librarian wouldn't let him check out a book from the Restricted Section. "Probably not. I need to finish the essay for History of Magic."
"Come on! You're the only one who actually pays attention in that class. The whole school's going to be there! Please, Sherlock? For me?"
"I'll try," Sherlock sighed.
That evening as Sherlock sat in the stands, surrounded by students waving scarlet pennants and wearing badges that said "Roar Roar Gryffindor!" On the other side of the stands, the Slytherin supporters formed a sea of emerald. Between them was the pitch, complete with three fifty-foot hoops at either end; the field was motionless but would soon be filled with fourteen players on broomsticks.
He was deep in thought when the sound of raised voices coming from the players' entrance roused him. He looked up just in time to see Natalie, the Gryffindor Captain, push Xander Evans, the Slytherin Captain, out the door and onto the field.
"You slimeball! You filthy wretched- " Natalie screeched, raising her fist. Another player rushed forward and pulled her back before she could cause any damage.
The rest of the team leaked onto the field. Sherlock could see John, face upturned, searching the stands. Sherlock stood up and waved. John saw him and waved back, motioning for him to come down. Sherlock ran to the stairs, maneuvering around students clambering for a better look at the commotion below. The two met at the entrance to the locker rooms.
"You better take a look at this. I can't believe they would sink so low!" John fumed, leading Sherlock into the locker rooms. They turned the corner and met a crowd of people surrounding the broom rack. Their faces held expressions of anger and confusion. One girl was even crying in the corner clutching what looked like a collection of branches.
Lying broken on the locker room floor were broomsticks; every single broom used by the Gryffindor team was snapped, bent, splintered, and absolutely beyond repair. John bent down and picked up a piece of broom handle with the letters eanSwee visible. He examined it sadly before tossing it back onto the pile of refuse.
"Listen, Sherlock. The teachers will be here any minute and you're not supposed to be here, but you've got to help us catch who did this," John said.
Sherlock knew what to do. He tiptoed in among the wooden mess, crouching down to examine the fragmented pieces. Carefully he slipped a few small pieces into his robe pockets. When the heap was sifted through satisfactorily, he got up and searched the perimeter of the room. Finding nothing, he started questioning the players. John watched him work, wondering what information he possibly could have gleaned from the horrible mess.
"….and you're sure your teammates were the first ones on the scene? No visitors were in here before?" Sherlock interrogated the Gryffindor Keeper.
"Absolutely. Our captain was the last one to leave last night after practice. She and I were the first ones to arrive today," replied the Keeper.
Sherlock turned to John, who had come to stand by his side. "I need to think. Send an owl to the Ravenclaw tower tonight. Sit by your window, and keep an ear out for anything about what happened here, even if it seems unimportant to you."
John was about to ask Sherlock a question, but just then Professor Scoggin, the wizard from the Sorting and the Head of Gryffindor House, came sweeping into the room. He gazed about the room, wide-eyed, and when his gaze fell on John he looked at Sherlock, trying to formulate an excuse, but found his friend had already gone.
That night John borrowed an owl from his suitemate and wrote a note to Sherlock
What did you find in the locker room? JW
He tied the parchment to the barn owl's leg and watched as it scuttled to the window and swooped away. It wasn't long before the owl's pale form was pecking at the glass. The owl stuck out its leg and waited patiently as John retrieved the note. He rewarded the owl with a treat before reading the note.
There was a medium length blonde hair on the pile. If no one was there before the brooms were discovered, then the hair must belong to the culprit. The brooms were all broken by hand, which must have required lots of strength. We're looking for a strong blonde Slytherin. SH
John replied:
I follow you up until the Slytherin part. What makes you so sure that it was a Slytherin that did it? JW
They wanted to sabotage the game, of course. You yourself said that Slytherin had a weak team this year. By causing Gryffindor to forfeit, it gives them a better chance at winning the Cup. Now, who do we know that is in Slytherin, has blonde hair, and is strong enough to break a broom handle? SH
John screwed up his eyes, thinking hard. Sherlock must know the answer, but he desperately wanted to impress his friend. As he thought of the Slytherin team, the answer popped into his head. He nearly spilled his ink his rush to write it down.
Xander Evans, the Slytherin captain. He's blonde, stocky, and too thick to know how to blast apart the brooms by magic. JW
John eagerly awaited his friend's praise, but when the owl returned its leg was bare. He took it to mean that Sherlock was satisfied with his answer and had nothing else to say on the matter. John gave the owl another treat before sending it back to the owlery.
Tensions between Gryffindor and Slytherin were at an all-time high. Gryffindor students made a point of forgetting the Slytherins' existence. Hallways were full of hostile glares and rude comments made when the teachers were out of earshot. Even friends in the two houses couldn't avoid the feud. John overheard the following exchange in the library one evening:
"Hey Sam, can I borrow a quill?" said Jake, a Slytherin 5th year.
"Sure, if you promise not to break it," replied his Gryffindor girlfriend.
Despite straining his ears for five weeks, desperate to pick up any information on the case, John was no wiser. Sherlock seemed to have forgotten about the whole ordeal; they were studying poisons in Potions class and he was determined to devise a completely new poison. John was on his way to the lavatory when he rounded a corner and ran right into his friend. Sherlock was walking quite fast and managed to knock John over. John didn't have time to speak before Sherlock yanked him up by his arm and dragged him away, nearly at a run down the corridor.
"Sherlock, what are you doing? Why are we running?" John asked, bewildered.
"Shut up and run!" Sherlock shouted.
Just then there was a large explosion behind them.
"Merlin's beard! Sherlock!" John gasped. An acrid, burning smell filled the hallway. He finally understood why they were running away from the boys' toilets. "Did you blow something up? You're going to get us in trouble, and it's Quidditch tomorrow!"
"It was for science, John!" he said.
They were almost to the courtyard when a voice from behind them stopped them in their tracks.
"Holmes! What is going on here?" Professor Vena said, peering down at them with hawk-like eyes. "Can you tell me why there was an explosion in the lavatories just now?"
"I don't know," Sherlock retorted, "can you tell me what you were doing in Professor Legate's office just now?"
John looked quickly from Vena's crumpled robes and mussed hairdo to the open door of Professor Legate's office, through which he could see him hastily adjusting his trousers.
Vena's face scowled and grew immensely red. She spoke through clenched teeth.
"Detention. Tonight. My office. You and your friend." She looked at John as though just realizing he was there. Without another word she turned on her heel and swept away.
The duo spent their evening in the chilly dungeons, squeezing the eyes out of slimy pickled newts. John often lamented about missing the game while Sherlock was entirely quiet. Before they went for their punishment (or rather, Sherlock's punishment, as John thought) John managed to find Greg and beg him to take a play by play of the game for him. Greg did exactly that, and as soon as John climbed through the porthole to the Gryffindor common room a wall of noise met his ears. It seemed as if the entire house was yelling.
Must have been quite the game, John thought. He found Greg talking animatedly to a group of friends. He tapped him on the shoulder and shouted into his ear.
"WHAT HAPPENED?" yelled John.
"LET'S FIND SOMEPLACE QUIETER" shouted Greg. Since becoming house-mates with John, Greg showed no apprehension towards him like he did that first day on the train. In fact, he had quite convinced himself that the whole ordeal was a dream brought on by too much sugar.
They went upstairs to John's dorm. John sat on his four poster bed, and Greg sat facing him on his trunk.
"So everything was going normal, Slytherin was being booed and everyone else was supporting Ravenclaw. One girl even bewitched a bunch of birds to fly in the shape of an eagle to make a shadow across the pitch… anyway, the game started and Slytherin was down thirty points right off. Jackson got hit with a bludger about ten minutes in; he's spending the night in the hospital wing, but should be all right. Ravenclaw was just about to score again- their chaser had his arm raised and everything-when his broom just started jerking back and forth. He dropped the quaffle and the Slytherin captain caught it. I was waiting for a couple Ravenclaws to come in and flank him when I realized that all the Ravenclaw brooms were doing the same thing. They were all jerking sporadically around. One of their beater's brooms was leaping several feet in the air and then dropping. The poor girl could barely hold on. Then Coach Schwiess called a time out. Ravenclaw had to forfeit due to malfunctioning brooms. The Slytherins did it again, obviously. Those scum are so untalented they can't even win a game without cheating."
"I should have been there!" John cried. "I know it had to have been Evans, the evil scu-" John's cursing was interrupted by a tap at the window. Outside perched a small black owl with a note tied to its leg.
"That's him isn't it? Your friend Sherlock," Greg said. "Well, I better go finish my charms essay." He left for the stairs and climbed up to his own dorm.
John let the owl in and seized the note. It read:
I'm sure you've heard by now. We have to catch him in the act. The next game is Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff, but I don't think anything will happen then. No reason to sabotage a team that you aren't playing against. So we have to wait until the last game, which will be Slytherin vs. the winner of the next game. If Hufflepuff wins, we'll go together. If Gryffindor wins, I'll go alone. I've already got a plan. I promise I'll stay out of trouble. SH
Chapter 4
Apprehended
Sherlock was right. Nothing out of the ordinary happened at the next game. Slytherin didn't need any dirty tactics to ensure Gryffindor's defeat; the scarlet team had to play on the school's oldest brooms. John was using a creaky and dry-rotted Cirrus 500. Barely fly safe, John figured he could run faster than the broom could move. The rest of the team was no better off. A few had ordered new brooms, but their ability to practice most of the season had been hindered. The Hufflepuffs, on the other hand, had had an entire season without delay to practice, not to mention a fully functioning team.
Gryffindor's defeat was quick and inevitable. The sun shone brightly, allowing the Seekers to easily spot the glinting shine of the Snitch. The Gryffindor Seeker saw it first, hovering just above the faculty seats. Despite the advantage, the Hufflepuff Seeker easily streaked past the struggling Gryffindor seeker. Moments later she clutched the Snitch in her hand, winning the game 200-0.
In the following days Gryffindor was notably subdued. Their chance at the Cup was gone. John and Sherlock had one last chance to catch the saboteur. Between the third and the last game, they came up with a plan. Immediately before the next game, they were to wait under the stairs leading to the changing rooms. When Evans came down to begin his sabotage he would be apprehended and the game will have been saved. At least, that was the plan.
On the day of the game, John woke up early, eager to get his hands on the jerk that broke his broom and ruined his Quidditch season. After breakfast, he met Sherlock in the courtyard by the path leading to the Quidditch pitch. The morning dew still had not dried, leaving traces of their steps down the lawn. They didn't want to leave any trace, so Sherlock cast a Concealment charm behind them. They crammed into the closet under the stairs, keeping the door cracked enough to aim a spell out of.
They didn't talk. John spent the time imagining scenarios in his head. How he, John, would be the hero of the Gryffindor team. He would prove himself to his friend.
Suddenly the torches burst into flame. A door slammed shut and he could hear footsteps coming down the stairs. He heard Sherlock turn to look at him. Sherlock gave him a nod; this was it. It was much too early for any players to be entering, so it must be Evans sneaking in for sabotage once again.
John tensed. He could see Sherlock's eye in the narrow strip of yellow light cast by the torches. Sherlock pulled his wand out, ready at any moment. He saw the intruder go to the robe rack and sprinkle a black powder over the Gryffindor robes.
"PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!" shouted Sherlock.
The intruder fell to the floor with a loud thud, paralyzed. Sherlock dashed out of hiding, followed by John. He looked down at Evan's face. Only, it wasn't Xander Evans. On the floor before them lay a girl John recognized as a Hufflepuff seventh year. She had freckles on her frozen face, and held in a neat pony tail was her blonde hair. He couldn't comprehend it. Sherlock couldn't either, apparently. His friend was staring at the girl, eyes darting frantically around. John could tell he was trying to figure out where he went wrong. Sherlock grabbed the bag of black powder and wafted its scent under his nose.
"Doxy powder," he said. "Go find Professor Scoggin."
John did so, and shortly came back with the wizard. He waved his wand at the girl, who became unparalyzed and limp on the floor.
"Up, up, Miss Merritt. I do believe the Headmistress would like a word with you," Scoggin said sternly, and escorted the silently weeping girl out of the changing room.
"There's always something," Sherlock said. "I assumed Evans was our culprit, because of Slytherin's feud with Gryffindor. I didn't think there could have been other motivation for an attack on your House."
"It's alright. We both thought it was Evans. I guess we can't automatically blame Slytherin now, can we? At least I can play this game in peace, although I do miss my old Cleansweep," John said, grasping his replacement broom.
Chapter 6
A Surprise
The Great Hall was in its usual uproar; the clattering of silverware and plates combined with excited voices created quite the cacophony. The sky, mirrored in the enchanted ceiling, was a brilliant blue, dotted with swollen white clouds. It was the last day of school before summer began. Exams were finished and the air of relief and freedom drifted among the students like a cool breeze.
Sherlock had been invited to sit at the Gryffindor table. Since helping find who ruined their Quidditch season, he was regarded as a near celebrity; a fact he faced with chagrin. Of course, this meant he was able to sit with John, surrounded by John's friends, including Greg. He was helping himself to a celebratory biscuit as they discussed how their exams went.
"I think I passed most of my classes," John said through a mouthful of pudding. "With your help, of course," he added, nodding to Sherlock.
"No surprise there," replied Sherlock.
Just then a loud whooshing filled the hall as the owl post arrived. Sherlock got his weekly letter from his parents. He looked over at the Slytherin table and saw that Mycroft had got one, too. John didn't get any mail. He never did. He often joked that he wasn't exactly on "speaking terms" with his family. It surprised him quite a lot, then, when a massive Great Gray owl dropped a long, skinny package on the table in front of him.
"Who're you meant for?" he asked, quickly checking the addressee. It read "John Watson, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry".
The owl clicked its beak irritably and took off, deliberately knocking over John's orange juice.
"I think you offended him by not believing he delivered it correctly," said Greg, who was sitting across from John. "Anyway, open it up!"
John grabbed the end and started ripping the brown parcel paper off. Greg helped, too. Sherlock didn't help, but rather watched John's expression closely. By now the package had attracted quite the crowd. There was more than one gasp when John unwrapped a gleaming wooden broom handle. The wrappings were pulled back to reveal a log, sturdy handle, foldable foot rests, and a tail with meticulously crafted willow twigs The gold lettering on the handle read "Cirrus 2034."
"Woah. Where did you get it?" Greg asked, eyes wide.
"I don't know," said John, but he was lying. He knew exactly who sent the broom. He glanced at Sherlock and saw him smiling into his cup of pumpkin juice.
Chapter 7
A Motive
Zola Merritt hustled down the empty corridor. She paused, eyes straining to see any figures in the dark. After a few moments of observation, she was satisfied that she was not being followed and continued her nighttime jaunt. Once she came upon the statue of Speedicus the Grizzled, she felt along the wall for the handle to a small broom cupboard. The metal of the doorknob was cool against her skin. Quietly as possible, she slipped inside.
She was not alone. Also in the cramped and dirty closet was a boy. He was quite a bit younger than she was, had dark hair and pale skin, and was wearing an emerald set of pajamas with a silver snake embroidered on the breast pocket. In his hand he clutched a sack of gold.
"Lumos," Zola lit her wand tip.
The light threw strange shadows on the boy's face; his dark eyes and hair contrasted heavily with his pale face, giving it an appearance not unlike a skull. He held out the bag of gold. Zola grabbed it, took out a Galleon, and examined it by wand light.
"Specialis Revelio," she said.
Nothing happened.
"Don't you trust me?" said the boy.
"No, I don't James," Zola said. "And I hardly think 400 Galleons is enough. I nearly got expelled, my mum took away my Hogsmeade privileges, and I had to give my own broomstick to the Gryffindors to help replace the ones I broke. To top it all off, Hufflepuff didn't even win the cup because they cancelled the tournament!" Zola glared fiercely at the boy.
He seemed unperturbed at her outburst. He calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of gold coins.
Zola's eyes widened, then she adjusted herself as though not truly surprised. The coins clinked as they changed hands.
"I hope that makes up for any….inconvenience," he said.
"Well—I, er…Yes, yes, that's fine."
James turned to leave the closet, but Zola grabbed his arm. "Where are you getting all this?" she hissed.
"Don't worry about it," he said with a smile.