The next week or so passed by in a blur of rain and fog, and the grounds around the castle looked quite dreary indeed. The leaves were still green on the trees, but they hung loose and damp as though they were awaiting permission to die, and the once-solid earth had turned into a swampland.

John found himself more laden with homework than ever before, with assignments in every subject (save Defense Against the Dark Arts). The "competition" that took up half of each class was down to the final four contesters: Sherlock, a boy from Gryffindor, a boy from Hufflepuff, and John himself. Their only homework so far had been practicing spells, and it seemed as if everyone had done so. In the second class, the matches lasted much longer and were much closer. Everyone was looking forward to the final match to see who would win the points for their house. All the signs, of course, pointed to Gryffindor. The odds were more in their favor, with two students left to represent them. But it was not for nothing that the sole remaining Ravenclaw was Sherlock Holmes.

John still wasn't quite sure what to make of the boy. Despite his directness, he didn't seem like a bad person, but most people tended to avoid him. What other people found to be strange about him, John found to be impressive and fascinating, and was actually quite surprised that Sherlock wasn't fairly popular. If he had been in Slytherin, there would be a good chance that he would have a bit of a following going. But perhaps it was for the better that that wasn't the case, as that was how You-Know-Who had started off, after all. Having followers rather than friends didn't exactly foretell good things.

In any case, the afternoon of the second Friday of term found John immersed in books in the library, in an attempt to escape the noise of the common room and get some of his homework done.

He was halfway through a particularly nasty potions essay when he was just about ready to chuck his book across the room in frustration. Why was he so dreadfully miserable at this? It wasn't like he was a genius in any of his other classes, but potions he just couldn't figure out for the life of him. The concept seemed easy-just follow the instructions and the potion should come out just fine. But it was so easy to lose track or make a simple mistake, and even when you did follow the instructions word-for-word, there was a good chance your cauldron would melt, or something would blow up (neither of these tended to be good signs).

And then, to make matters worse, there were the essays. You had to explain why to add something, when to add it, how it affects the potion, its various properties, and the like. It seemed much too pointless and confusing to John, who was completely ready to go to sleep, even though it wasn't even time for dinner yet.

In fact, it was just about time for supper when John dosed off with his face in his book, his cheek pressed against the page.

"Is this usually what you do here? Sleep?"

John jerked awake at the sound of the familiar voice, smooth as silk. Sherlock settled into the seat beside John, despite the variety of abandoned tables around them.

"That's usually the end result, yes."

"I would think your bed would be a bit more comfortable," he said, pulling John's essay towards him. Scanning the few paragraphs quickly, he muttered, half to himself, "This is utterly abysmal."

"Thanks. Want to help me fix it up, then?"

"I have plenty of work to get done myself without doing yours as well. Although, I think you'll find this book a bit more helpful," he added, shoving towards John a small handbook called Common Potions Ingredients and Their Uses.

"This is the most beautiful book I've ever seen," John observed, flipping through it reverently.

"You can't have seen many books then. I mean just look at the state of the spine." Sherlock smirked, and John could honestly not tell if the other boy had taken him literally or not.

John decided to simply restart his potions essay, and this time through, with the help of that marvelous book and the occasional comment from Sherlock, the process was considerably less painful. By the time he had finished though, dinner had long since passed and the sun was beginning to dip behind the distant hills.

"Crap," muttered John, hastily shoving his books into his bag.

"What?" asked Sherlock, without looking up from his Ancient Ruins textbook.

"I need to be down at the Quidditch pitch, like, now."

"What on earth would you need to be there for?"

"Team tryouts are this evening, and it would look awful to be late."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, as though he were allergic to the very thought of participating in sports. "I could show you a shortcut, if you'd like."

"That…would be wonderful."

"And you can borrow that book," Sherlock added, gesturing to the potions book John had left on the table, while he collected his own.

John picked it up gingerly, partially because it was the most amazing, helpful, wonderful thing that he had ever discovered, and partially because it was so old that it might disintegrate if handled too roughly.

Sherlock led him through a secret passageway through a door that was disguised as a wall, which winded and curved an extraordinary amount, and emerged just beyond the entrance hall. John slowed down to bid the other boy goodnight, but Sherlock continued walking.

"I think I'll accompany you," he said casually. "I've never seen Quidditch and I do wonder what all the excitement is about. Perhaps you can enlighten me."

"Well, this isn't a proper game," John pointed out.

"I should hope not-far too many people to deal with at those. The castle is beautifully empty when there are matches though, I'll give them credit for that."

"Well, the flying bit is fun," the shorter boy pointed out kind of lamely.

"Hmmm."

By the time they reached the Quidditch pitch, only the tryouts for chaser and seeker were left. Sherlock sat in the stands, apart from everyone else, while John grabbed a school broom and watched the potential keepers take turns defending the hoops.

There were only three hopefuls-one was absolutely dreadful, one not bad, and the other simply magnificent. She flew with ease, and had no trouble grabbing the Quaffle from the other players, and putting it past Quealy, who was playing keeper.

There was one other boy trying out for seeker, and he looked fast-very fast. He was even shorter than John, and extremely thin-two good things going for him. The way he mounted his broom, too, hinted that he was an experienced flier. Determined to not lose his confidence, John kicked up into the air and immediately felt his nerves drop away below him, along with the ground.

The two boys circled the pitch a few times to show they at least knew how to stay on a broom, and then the snitch was released. Whoever caught the snitch first had a definite advantage, but that didn't necessarily mean that they got the position-the captain made it clear he was also looking at technique and general skill in the air.

John scanned the pitch, always keeping an eye on the other potential seeker. He flew in circles, high above the ground, looking below (and occasionally above) him for a glint of gold in the growing dark. If they took much longer, they'd have to call it quits for the night.

He was just about to suggest they give up for the time being, when the moon peeked out from behind a cloud and something silver flitted past his ear. His adrenaline pumping, John shot forward in pursuit, and was soon joined by the other boy. Neck and neck, they chased the snitch up, down, and all around, each stretching his arm as far as possible.

The other boy kept maneuvering his body to block John from seeing the snitch, so in his frustration, he dived under the boy, and shot up from below, catching the snitch practically from the boy's hand on his way, and very nearly knocking him out of the air. The snitch, silver in the growing moonlight, flapped its wings slowly and calmly, as John landed, exhausted, on the grass.

"You both did great," said Quealy, the Quidditch Captain enthusiastically. "I'll let you know tomorrow who made it, I need the rest of the evening to make final decisions for the team."

Sherlock and John began their walk up to the castle together, Sherlock commenting the whole time on how "boring" the whole thing seemed.

"I mean, what's the point of it, anyway? Who cares, it's just a stupid game."

"It's fun," said John, exasperated. "Surely you've heard of that?"

"I prefer reading for fun."

"Of course you do."

"Hey, John, I didn't know you were going to try out!" John turned around to see Sally, a fellow Gryffindor in his year, approaching.

"Oh, yeah!" He had completely forgotten that she was on the team. "Do you have any idea who he's going to choose?"

"No, sorry. The captain's not telling anyone." She turned to Sherlock. "What're you doing with him?"

John was surprised at the sudden hostility in her voice. "He felt like coming and watching. Something wrong?"

"Well, he's kind of a freak," she said in a mock whisper, but loud enough for Sherlock to hear. The Ravenclaw seemed to be having trouble finding something in his bag.

"He seems perfectly fine to me."

"Well, you shouldn't hang around with him," she said, giving John a meaningful look.

"I think I'll decide that for myself, thanks," he snapped, and shoved passed her, purposely slamming her with his shoulder. "Come on, Sherlock. If we don't hurry up we'll get in trouble for being out too late."

"John-" began the dark-haired boy, once they were inside the doors.

"Wow, I didn't realize."

"Realize what?"

"That Sally is a huge git."

Sherlock grinned in spite of himself. "I don't think she ever got over me beating her in Divination last year."

"You take Divination?"

"I did for two years. I dropped it though. It's a completely ridiculous, pointless subject."

"I figured you'd say something like that. Why did you take it at all, though?" John inquired, lifting an eyebrow.

"Well, it was good for relaxing my mind. Allowed me to think. I was actually pretty good at it-I'm good at making predictions based on the comings and goings around me. Not seer stuff, but it was enough to impress the professor. Besides, when I couldn't do that, it's really easy just to make stuff up."

"That's how I got by. Dropped it as soon as I could, though," John added.

Before long they were outside the portrait hole to Gryffindor Tower, which Sherlock passed when he didn't take a short cut.

"See ya, Sherlock."

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

That night, John's dreams were filled with blue-green eyes that glinted with gold, and soft smiles that spoke gratitude. The next morning though, he remembered none of these visions.