Chapter Eleven
The Shape-Shifter
The news that John Watson was joining the Gryffindor Quidditch team spread like wildfire that night in the common room. One spark told to Lestrade and he went insane, running around to kids who were older than him just so he could try to humiliate John with crowds of people and avoid doing his homework. When he went up to bed hours later, he hadn't progressed on his Charms homework at all since he'd become hyper.
John had kept his thrilling news a secret until after dinner, because he knew once the information got out the whole school would be abuzz and groups of people would point at him. When the Gryffindors had History of Magic with the Hufflepuffs next day, Greg forced John to tell Molly the unbelievable news.
"But, a first year hasn't made the team in ages!" Hooper exclaimed as they exited another boring class with Professor Binns. She slid her homework into her bulging bag and fixed her yellow and black tie. Her ankle‒high brown boots clomped lightly on the floor while they walked; covering her short, white socks. "How does she even know you're such a good flyer anyway?"
"I suppose Madam Hooch has been keeping her informed," John decided, shifting his wand in his robes' inside pocket.
Sherlock didn't seem as impressed as the others had about John joining the team. The lion could tell by his tone when he approached him at breakfast, awkwardly holding out his hand and saying, "Congratulations." Watson didn't need to ask what for, because from all the fame he was so suddenly exposed to he'd gotten used to it. His first Quidditch practice was approaching quickly, and the blond didn't know whether to feel nervous or excited.
There was another buzz of excitement spreading through the first years though, because their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher had told them that a 'surprise' was waiting for them during their next class. Both Sherlock and John had earned a considerable amount of house points in their lessons from perfecting Expelliarmus, but Professor Franklin had informed his students that the magic they would practice during their next session was far more advanced.
Less chatter passed between John, Lestrade, and Molly as they preceded towards Hogwarts after morning Herbology classes; probably because the Azkaban creatures lurked all around the grounds, guarding every entrance and hovering over all the students. Every time John went swiftly by one without looking he felt as though he couldn't recall any happy memory he'd ever experienced in his life. All those moments spent talking with Sherlock in the field at home, the times he'd spent hugging his parents, even the fact that Quidditch was soon coming; memories were swept from his mind, and he shuttered thankfully after they'd gone past the foul creatures.
The big, hooded figures with what looked like dead, scabby hands never tried to attack any of the students. They just hovered over the grass, blowing a dreadful cold over the terrified kids and sweeping happy recollections from the world. They seemed to have no feet and their ragged, grey cloaks covered their heads at all times. No one wanted to know what was underneath the cloth.
"I don't think Sherlock's so into them anymore," Lestrade pointed out as they raced into the entrance hall. "I haven't heard him talking about them recently."
"Good thing too," Molly added, hunching over her shoulders to avoid the soul‒sucking monsters. Her hair was done in two French braids, and Greg noticed it made her seem cuter than her usual standards.
"Yeah well, I've seen that obnoxious Moriarty around them a lot," John substituted Sherlock for the Slytherin. "One day he's going to taunt them too far and the whole school will be in deep trouble."
All too soon, their Tuesday Defense Against the Dark Arts class came from around the corner, and the first year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws made their way up the marble staircase to an anticipated lesson. When Sherlock pushed open the door, a strange yet familiar sight greeted his vision. All the student desks had been completely removed from the room and Professor Franklin's teacher desk had been pushed up to rest directly next to the far wall. Clearly a place for practicing spells, Sherlock recalled, noting the open area. But why the entire classroom?
About three‒quarters of the way into the room, a locked chest wriggled madly on the floor. It tossed and turned on its own and something inside made loud banging noises. The latch on the front was tightly secured and hence whatever creature inside could not escape.
As usual, Professor Franklin didn't show up until a few minutes before class began, by which time Sherlock had already figured out what was in the locked piece of furniture. He'd racked his brain for minutes on end, pushing Lestrade away as he tried to concentrate and had eventually come up with a decision. The teacher directed them to pile their bags and belongings in the back area of the classroom and informed them they'd only need their wands for protection.
"I suppose you're all wondering what is inside this chest at my feet." He stated the obvious confusion, nodding at the noisy box. "Well, technically first years are not supposed to learn or take on this magic yet, but I thought I'd introduce you to the subject, since the creature just so happened to be lurking in this chest in my office. I figured since you're my best class, you'd be able to handle it quite nicely."
He started to pace around the room with his hands in his pockets, all the while the students occasionally flinching when the chest would let off another loud bang. His voice rang through the room louder than the knocking as he asked the first question. "Does anyone want to venture a guess as to what is inside?"
Sherlock's hand automatically rose into the air not five seconds after he'd finished the question. "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"
Even though he knew he was right, Sherlock said the answer in an unsure tone. "Is it a boggart?"
"Yes, it is Mr. Holmes. And do you know what a boggart looks like, Sherlock?" The teacher thought he'd tricked his student, but Sherlock knew that answer too.
"Well, that depends. Boggarts are shape‒shifters, so they don't stay in one particular form. What the boggart mainly wants is his foe to experience fear, so it takes on the shape of whatever it is you fear most." He finished his sentence with a very proud and smug grin, as he'd just spoken very quickly but crystal clearly.
"Very good, Mr. Holmes! Five points to Ravenclaw. Yes," he said, directing his attention to the entire crowd of eleven‒year‒olds, "A boggart's purpose is to scare the attacker by changing its form. Now, I know none of you want to think of what you fear most, but your boggart will turn into that no matter what. But," he stopped his students' thoughts, raising his finger into the air, "of course there's a way to fight them off." When no one took a wild guess, Professor Franklin gave them the correct answer instead of hinting first. "Laughter."
Sally Donovan, who stood on the opposite side of the room and was nosy about everything, asked the shouting question in their minds. "But Professor, how will laughter stop a boggart?"
"That's a good question, Ms. Donovan. You see, since fear is what you'll be exposed to, the opposite must defeat your enemy. Laughter is the opposite of fear." More or less, Sherlock hummed. Their teacher continued to rant on. "Now, I want you to all picture the thing you fear most and turn it into something funny. If you don't know what you fear most, well…you'll just have a surprise for you." Several students gulped loudly.
Lestrade was concentrating way too much because he was sort of dancing in place while his mouth twitched, and his eyes were squeezed shut tightly. Sherlock stood with both hands pressed together over his mouth, staring up at the ceiling and not coming up with anything he feared. I don't fear anything, he came to a conclusion, so what will my boggart be?
John was having the same problem. Hundreds of ferocious animals came to mind, but none that he was scared of or made him even remotely afraid. Okay, I'll try something besides animals. The first thing that came to mind was his family, and the one person who stood out most was his father. That's it, John found his fear, probably my dad being killed in the war or something…
But now he had to turn his dead father into something funny. How's that supposed to work? You can't change your mind so quickly from depressing to happy…
"We ready now?" Professor Franklin asked, checking that the students were prepared to begin the lesson as he clapped his hands together. "Right," he said, pulling his wand from the inside of his robes. "Before we attempt to finish the boggart and practice, we must learn the spell. Repeat after me. Riddikulus."
Lestrade always had to restrain himself from, oddly enough, giggling every time they prepared to say a spell. When he heard it in his ears, it sounded like demented Latin, and he wasn't surprised if magic originated from the language. Either way, it sounded funny to him. There was a faint mutter that scattered throughout the room, echoing the spell back at the teacher. "Riddikulus."
"No no no," the professor shook his head. "It's not pronounced ridiculous. Make sure to accentuate the 'ku' sound, so it sounds like the letter 'Q'. Try again, like this. Riddikulus," he spoke, speaking every letter clearly.
"Riddikulus," the class repeated, the spell mimicking the professor's.
"There we are!" Bob Franklin exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air with over enthusiasm. "Alright, so who would like to try first?"
No one was brave enough to step forward to volunteer. Bob scanned the room, raising his eyebrows, waiting for someone to test out the boggart. "Very well, I'll just have to do this the hard way. Mr. Drave, please come join me." The young, short Ravenclaw who'd been picked went wide‒eyed. He was one of the boys from Sherlock's dorm; Hugo Drave, a remarkably smart student with short, brown hair and matching eyes. Freckles littered his face and he was very shy.
Slowly and cautiously, Hugo made his way through the crowd, pushing past people to reach the front of the classroom. Everyone else secretly backed up against the far wall, making sure they wouldn't be picked next. When he reached Professor Franklin, Drave looked like he might pass out. The teacher stood with his hands behind his back, staring sweetly down upon his student.
"Now, Hugo," he paused to extend the tense moment, "what do you fear most in the entire world?"
Hugo hesitated to expose his fear, but exhaled a deep breath and gave in. "I have a fear of being abused." A couple people in the back of the room held their breath or went into a frozen stance. A few rude kids snickered and thought it was a joke, but the shaky voice Hugo gave off told no lie.
The professor nodded his head in commitment. "I see," he said, rocking back and forth on his feet. "Trouble at home, I bet?" he asked gently, and the boy responded in a way no one knew how he managed it. "Well, I did when I was a lad. But now that my parents are divorced, it never happens anymore. But I still feel it will come back to haunt me someday."
"Well Hugo, just know right here nothing is allowed to happen to you. It is my job, and Dumbledore's, to keep all the students at Hogwarts safe. Now, when I unlock that chest I want you to picture something hilarious that has nothing to do with what you are afraid of. Only focus on laughter. Can you do that?"
"I‒I think so," Charlie stumbled with his words. A girl on John's left placed her hand over her heart, feeling sorry for the boy that had to live with harsh parents at home.
"Alright. Wand at the ready, Hugo. Here we go." Drave retrieved his wand from his robes. "Everyone else be prepared to step forward when your name is called." The sounds of swishing robes were heard as hands plunged into pockets to pull out their sticks of wood.
Professor Franklin waited for the signal from the Ravenclaw to unlock the chest. "Ready," Hugo told him nervously, his hand shaking uncontrollably.
"Alright." He's said that like six times already, Sherlock noticed. "One…Two…Three…" Click. The latch on the trunk flipped open and the lid flew open. At first, nothing came out of the box, even though it had made so much noise before.
And then gracefully, the top of a man's head appeared from inside the chest. The hair on top of his head was messy black and the parent's huge jaw peered over the wall. His nose was slightly crooked, and he expressed an evil, menacing grin that would cause any child to hide in protection. Hugo took multiple steps backwards, holding his wand in front of him and tripping over his feet. A looped belt was in his father's hand, and the huffing from Hugo's mouth only meant the accessory was going to come into contact with his skin if he didn't do something quickly.
"Now Hugo, now!" The professor was shouting at him. The tall man took powerful and dominant strides, inching closer to his son as a terrible example of a parent. His knuckles were tough from years of building up strength in them, and he smacked the belt in his hands in a haunting way. But before his lifted hand swept down to strike, Hugo's courage built up and he yelled, "Riddikulus!"
What was a belt in his hand a moment prior was now a toy wand used to blow bubbles. As his arm lowered, a group of soapy spheres fell onto the wizard's robes, and the son kicked his father so he stumbled backwards. Shouts of laughter rang through the room, and Hugo looked as though he'd just been experienced to music for the first time.
"Well done, Hugo! Five points to Ravenclaw for starting us off so well! Donovan, you're next!" Sally Donovan rolled her eyes but stepped forward, wand held at the ready. Suddenly, there was a loud crack and the boggart shifted into a different shape in a split second. The broken father and bubbles snapped in the air, sprouting a tail and sleek scales.
The poisonous serpent slithered on the floor, larger than Donovan herself, exposing the fangs in her face and flicking its tongue at her. The boggart's mouth opened wide, preparing to strike the opponent. Its tail whipped dangerously, eyes beadily staring at Sally. If she was scared, she surely didn't show it and flicked her wand carelessly, shouting, "Riddikulus!" She was either trying to act cool or tough, but Sherlock totally spotted the fear in her pupils.
Sally Donovan's snake had shriveled and lost its scales. They shrank and faded to brown, becoming flaky as the serpent turned into a tree branch. A Ravenclaw girl went next, and her mummy lost all its bandages and revealed a mannequin underneath. Crack. The boggart changed into various shapes, going wonky and changing freely.
"Ha!" Bob yelled, punching a fist in the air. "Keep going, it's getting confused. Mary Morstan, you next!" Mary's flat blonde hair could be seen bounding to the front of the room, and her doe face shrieked when her boggart forged into a shark. Swimming freely through the air, teeth razor sharp in many rows and blood dripping from the mouth, the shark's focus went directly to the girl and she shook all over. It took a huge effort, but she eventually managed to shout, "Riddikulus!"
"Excellent!" the teacher chuckled as Mary's boggart shrank to the size of a squeaky dog toy and the shiny skin became rubber. It fell to the floor lazily and Bob Franklin shouted the next name. "Mr. Lestrade! Your turn!"
Greg's grip on his wand became tighter as Sherlock slapped him on the back. The child shark toy waited on the floor patiently until Lestrade came into view and there was another firing gunshot sound. Most of his fellow students had trouble seeing what his boggart was because it blended so well into the floor. The sharp stinger on the tail was clearly visible and its pincers were as large as lobster claws. Its agile feet made it scamper across the floor and Lestrade circled farther away, keeping a safe distance from the creature.
The scorpion clipped its pincers, waiting to catch Lestrade's robes in them and be able to cut open his skin. It is not going to sting me, the Gryffindor forced himself to think, jumping over the critter and making it spin around in anger.
"Riddikulus!" Lestrade shouted, thrusting his wand in the air at the scorpion. Its pincers became spoons and its legs were cut off completely. Lestrade's boggart was so funny it made almost everyone in the classroom laugh hysterically and fall over because their ribs hurt so much.
A Ravenclaw girl went, her boggart being a spider. Another Ravenclaw boy went afterwards, crack, turning the tap dancing spider into a doctor's needle. Crack. The needle became a giant wasp, then a creature even Sherlock didn't know. There were phobias dealing with compacted spaces, failure, death, and many others.
"John Watson!" he heard his name called, and the Gryffindor eagerly stepped up to the front of the room. He planted his feet firmly into the floorboards, waiting for his boggart to make him jump out of his skin. He waited for it to turn into something unexpected, and he could tell all eyes were on him. Crack.
"NO!" John yelled, keeling over backwards but returning to his feet abruptly. His free hand flew to cover his mouth, and several girls in the back corner of the classroom gasped in shock. His wand shook violently in his left hand. No, it's not possible. It's not true, please tell me it's not happening…
A limp body was sprawled on the floor, blood pouring from deep gashes and wounds, and Lestrade stared at who it was. His head whipped around, flying to the Ravenclaw who stood four feet from him, an unbelievable expression on his face. There was not a family member lying on the floor, but a twin version of John's best friend instead.
Sherlock's hair was as curly as ever, but his white buttoned shirt had huge blotches of stained blood on it and his bright green eyes stared off into nothing. Broken wand a few centimeters from his dominant hand, his cheekbones were a ghostly white color. The terror struck Watson worse than it would have been if it was a family member, which didn't make any sense to him at all.
The real Sherlock stood in shock and was aware that most of the first years in the room were focused on him, not the dead version of him at John's feet. He wanted to shout to Watson that it wasn't going to happen any time soon and that it wasn't real, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Professor Franklin did it for him.
"Come on, John! It's not real, you can do it!" The lion slowly lowered his hand from his face, facing his fear and getting to his feet. Then, with a small sniff from his nose, the blond said, "Riddikulus!" John's eyes didn't have time to refocus on what his boggart had turned into, because the next second he felt arms pulling him to his feet, sliding him across the floor.
Professor Franklin continued to call names, and loud cracks echoed all over the room, bouncing off the walls. John's worst nightmare was locked inside his head, and someone was trying to shake him. The attention had returned to the front of the room, and soon Sherlock's blurry face came into view through stinging tears.
"John," he whispered, shaking him lightly, green eyes alive and functioning properly. "It's okay. I'm fine." John sat on the floor, knees bent into his chest. "I‒I can't," he tried to spit out but stuttered instead, and he allowed Holmes to enwrap him in a hug and forget his mixed‒up words. Mouth still agape while trembling, John pulled his friend in close and felt Sherlock's hand weave through his sandy hair.
The two boys helped John get back to his feet and stroked the water droplets from his face, by which time the last student was finishing off the boggart and Professor Franklin was forcing it back into the chest. A few others had been affected so severely they had to be treated like John as well, and that only mean it would take longer for them to get over their fears. The lid to the chest snapped shut with a loud bang, making the students jump. When the latch was secure again, a loud cheer spread through the room.
"Well," Professor Franklin huffed, after the noise had died down, "I'm glad you enjoyed the lesson so much. Maybe if we have time later in the year we can attempt to finish off another one. That's it for now. Off to your next class you go!"
He was walking alone, Ravenclaw tie lounged over his shoulders, robes flowing behind him. Sherlock Holmes, unsociable, was taking a walk. It had been a few days since John's mind had knocked him up about the boggart, and every now and then he'd shutter at the thought of his dead friend on the wooden floor. Sherlock had a hard time comforting John about the impossible manner, and decided it was best to stay out of it. But it was just another thing on the Gryffindor's mind he shouldn't have had to deal with.
Not a soul was around but himself, strolling leisurely on the seventh floor. It was the weekend so everyone was busy finishing homework in their common rooms. But Sherlock had already finished his homework. The only thing he hadn't done was his Astronomy chart of the solar system, and he simply refused to until the last minute.
I'm so foolish to ask John for help, he scolded himself as he sat in the library and wrote a short note to Watson on Saturday. It read:
John,
I don't understand why, but I'm having trouble with my Astronomy homework. It's a chart of the solar system and where all the planets are and things. Would you mind helping me tomorrow at one o'clock in the library? Usual spot?
Thanks.
-Sherlock Holmes
John had laughed when he sat down with Sherlock at lunch a few hours earlier and told him he could have just asked him in public. But Sherlock would have felt humiliated and had sent his owl Elizer to John in his common room as a replacement, and the younger boy had sent a quick reply anyway with his scribbled initials at the end.
Sure. Don't mind helping.
-JW
What was even more embarrassing was the fact that Sherlock didn't know the basics of the solar system. When John had commented about it while they ate, he said something about the earth going around the sun and Sherlock had responded that it 'wasn't important.' John looked at him like he was cross‒eyed. Instead of storing the useless fact, the clever child had 'deleted it' in order to pack more important facts into his brain.
But Sherlock Holmes didn't want to think about the solar system at that moment. He wanted to clear his mind; to just take a simple walk, which wasn't so simple for him.
As he passed down a deserted corridor, he found nothing anywhere. All the paintings but one had been removed from the walls and the hallway was the same color of stone. Not caring, he continued to stroll down the corridor, whistling to himself.
He stopped a few feet after passing a blank wall to his right. He thought he'd heard a creaking noise, but when he rotated around to see if anyone was following him no one was there. He continued in his path, but seconds later he heard the strange grinding noise again.
As opposed to a person standing behind him, a mysterious door had appeared on the wall he'd just passed. He glanced once or twice up and down the corridor, thinking how the door could possibly have shown up. Wow, magic, he remarked, smacking himself over the head in punishment for his stupidity. He checked behind the pillars sticking out from the wall, but again no one was there.
Curious, Sherlock's steps began taking him towards the door. He was always one to snoop around Mycroft's room at home, so why couldn't he do it at Hogwarts? His eyebrows bent down, almost touching each other as his arm floated up in front of his chest.
His long fingers pushed the wooden door open. A sight met his eyes he never expected to see.
"Which one's that?" A tall, handsome boy by the name of Anthony Greyskir stared down at his new Seeker. Being the Keeper and the oldest, he was also captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Tony had short, black hair almost identically cut to John's, but his brown eyes were so dark they were almost black. He was also at least a head taller in height. The sixteen‒year‒old was pointing to different colored sports balls in a supply chest. His finger stopped over the bright red one.
"That's the Quaffle," John recalled, remembering the name of the ball from a book he'd read and the information Sherlock had told him about Quidditch. "And those are the Bludgers," he said before Greyskir could ask the next question.
"Very good!" Five other athletes stood surrounding the trunk, two holding Beaters' bats with brooms at their feet. The entire Gryffindor Quidditch team had changed into scarlet playing robes with pads and protectors for their arms and legs to match. John remembered their last names in his head, going from the Chasers to himself last as his eyes skimmed the row. McKorrick, Monts, Dagmarc, Sherman, O'Brien, Greyskir, and Watson. He attempted to remember their first names as well. Finn, Kelsey, Heather, Riley, Chad, Anthony, John.
"Now, this is all I want you to care about," Tony told him, bending down to unravel a secret compartment in the chest. He pulled open the two halves of the Hogwarts school crest, and a tiny golden ball fell from the dent in the leather. John knew what this ball was and how special and significant it would be to him.
"The Golden Snitch," the Keeper said, rolling the walnut‒sized ball into John's palm. The first year's mouth was open in awe, and his fingers ran over the precise details and engravings in the object. "You see, catching the Snitch will earn us an extra hundred and fifty points, most likely causing us to win," Greyskir told the youngest player, a grin spreading on his face.
"It's a very interesting ball," Watson remarked, still gazing at the tiny marks and dots sticking out of its surface.
"Ha, well, you won't be saying that later," the older wizard informed him. "Imagine trying to catch this in a raging thunderstorm, with rain pouring down everywhere, and where you can barely see ten feet in front of you."
"Well, why isn't it flying now?" John asked, but his wonder was answered immediately. The tiny golden ball spread elegant silver wings, and the questioner had to grab it tightly to prevent the Snitch from escaping out of his fingertips.
"That's what we're going to practice today," Anthony explained, taking the Snitch from John's hand. "Since you're the first eleven‒year‒old to play on a Quidditch team for a while, all we're going to do is get you prepared. To do this, I'm just going to have you go after the Snitch and catch it a few times whenever we come together to practice. Once you get the hang of it, I'll try to have you catch it while we're flying around you. Oh, and be sure you have a firm grip, otherwise this sucker can get out of reach."
"Yeah, I can see that," John said, raising his eyebrows in a 'no kidding' kind of way.
"Now, I know you don't own your own broomstick, so you'll probably have to use a school one until you're old enough to have your own. But no worries; I've managed to confiscate the fastest broom the school has, so you can practice with speed and agility. So, what do you say we give it a go, John?"
Watson glanced at his teammates for support, and the two girl Chasers nodded encouragingly. "Why not," he smiled, turning back to the Gryffindor Keeper. He approached the school broom, shouted "Up!", and mounted his riding vehicle firmly.
"Good luck," Anthony told him, and he released the Snitch from his fingers. The tiny ball was visible in the sky near John for a split second, then it vanished as though it had been carried off by the wind easily.
John lurched the handle of his broom upwards, thrusting his head backwards. He circled the Quidditch pitch twice, using his catlike vision to try and make out the speck of gold. To his surprise, a small crowd of people had already crowded near one of the Gryffindor fan benches, waiting to cheer him on in their first match against Slytherin and see how remarkable he truly was.
