William Rathe sighed. "As a master in this school I have the right to ask, Mr. Holmes. It is against the Brompton code to resort to fisticuffs."
"Yes, Sir." The following silence, however, did not volunteer information.
"I don't suppose you want to tell me why you and Dudley Babcock were fighting in the quad?"
A pause. "I'd prefer not to, Sir."
"Of course you'd prefer not to, Mr. Holmes. Frankly, I'd prefer not to hear it. Oh, you needn't look surprised," Rathe answered the boy's unspoken question. "Babcock told me all about it and blamed you completely. I've no doubt that he was lying; therefore I've no absolute need of your explanation. What interests me more is how Babcock managed to hook that final right just as I ran up behind him. I was sure you were winning. You're not a bad boxer for a twelve-year-old."
If Holmes thought he was being flattered, he did not show it. Instead, confusion crossed his face. "I don't know, Mr. Rathe. I thought I saw a sort of light flash, and then…" he shook his head as if to clear it.
"Then?"
Now Holmes grimaced slightly. "Well - I don't know how Dudley managed to knock me to the ground. I didn't see it coming."
"Obviously." Rathe walked over to Holmes to survey the damage. "It's quite simple, really."
"It was because of the light?"
"Nonsense. Nothing more than untrained agility on your part," declared Rathe. "And a tendency to get distracted."
"It's my fault, Sir?" Holmes winced up into his teacher's face, then quickly down.
"How else do you explain Babcock's giving you a black eye?" Rathe, periphery examination over, let go of the boy's upturned chin and turned back to his desk. "The only reasonable explanation is your own lack of coordination. Although I would not have phrased that as being a matter of fault—yet. Please stop studying the carpet and go back to your classes. No doubt Professor Waxflatter is not waiting for you to begin today's lecture."
Already turned away and leaning back in his chair, Rathe felt the unexpected silence of footsteps across the floor before the inevitable (for Holmes) tripping sound and intake of breath; heard the door click softly in awkward obedience. "Damn it, Holmes! Watch where you're going!" hissed a prefect in the immediate corridor. Footfalls, curses, and apologies echoed and faded down the passage.
A winter afternoon poured in from the window. Rathe deliberately tilted his hand and let the fading sunlight brush against his ring. The ruby glowed. Sherlock Holmes. The boy had potential, more than Mycroft Holmes ever had or would. Young Holmes was quick, bright, not overly confident to the point of laziness (like his brother was). Yes, he was at the stage where he was tripping over his own mind as much as his own feet, but both would pass. Rathe chased the sun in the ring, cat and mouse. The key, Rathe decided, careful to look only at the scattered reflection on the ceiling, would be to influence the boy-sharpen his skills while narrowing his interests. Holmes could be his top student. But the boy's training must begin now. The first step would be to get him away from Waxflatter.
Wait. The ring on his right hand stilled. No. He needed Holmes to maintain contact with Waxflatter; he needed an unwitting spy. Better to use one to keep tabs on the other. Anyway, Waxflatter could train the boy in some subjects: advanced chemistry, beginning logic, even the finer points of arithmetic. Waxflatter's influence should stop there. Rathe himself had surpassed Waxflatter in mathematics and physics by the time he was fourteen, and the old fool of a teacher had noticed just enough to recommend him for Brompton years later. Let Waxflatter make the pathways into Holmes's mind. Rathe could follow. Easily.
And when the time came for revenge? Rathe smiled to himself. Dudley Babcock may be loathsome, but even sycophants have their uses.
The ring resumed its hunt for sunlight.