Hope you're all ready for the longest chapter yet. Mwahaha. -Mell
"Are you ready for this?" John asked for what had to be the thousandth time as the two boys made their way to The Three Broomsticks, where the Champions had been told to meet for specific instructions regarding the first task.
"As ready as I could ever be," was the other boy's terse response.
"It seems an odd place to have us meet. I mean, it's far."
"Mm."
"You don't think the task will be in Hogsmeade, do you?"
"It'll be in an arena," Sherlock said knowledgably, annoyed at John's constant attempts to make conversation. He felt that if he kept his mouth open for too long, he would be sick. "It's probably in the surrounding countryside."
"Oh."
As Sherlock had expected, Moriarty and Adler were already waiting outside of the pub, despite the bitterly cold weather; considering where they came from, it was only natural that it didn't have much of an effect on them. Sherlock, not wanting to show weakness in the face of whom he viewed as the enemy, simply stood outside as well, though he couldn't keep a shiver away; the competition uniforms they had been given to wear were not the warmest garments, and he hadn't thought to bring a robe.
A few minutes later, Collins appeared, looking feeble and terrified; he silently joined the group, staying a fair distance away from Sherlock and as far away from the Durmstrang students as he could get. The group was soon joined by Professor Dumbledore, the Durmstrang Headmaster, and two ministry officials.
"Who're they?" John whispered to Sherlock.
"The fat one is the head of The Department of Magical Games and Sports, and the old one is the head of The Department of Magical International Magical Cooperation. Kennick and Smith. They're the other two judges besides the headmasters."
Everyone except Dumbledore was casting weird looks at John-this technically was a meeting specifically for the champions, although no one had told Sherlock that he couldn't bring John along. John shifted uncomfortably, beginning to wish he hadn't come, but he had hated the idea of Sherlock being alone with Jack and the Durmstrang Champions.
"Champions and…friends," the fat wizard began, nodding politely at John. He sounded out of breath from the walk over. Sherlock figured his job did not usually include legwork. He very nearly made Slughorn look slim and fit.
"Welcome to the First Task of the Inter-School Tournament; I am sure you have all been waiting with bated breath to discover what great feat lies before you. As you might have guessed, this task will take place just outside of Hogsmeade, which is why we asked you to meet us here. The four of you will enter the designated area at the same time to complete the task. This area is the mountains that you see before you."
Sherlock looked up at the mountainous area outside of the village. He had never even approached them, having not been to Hogsmeade before.
"You will each take a Portkey that will deposit you at a random point in the mountains within the boundaries of the competition area. It will be your job to find your teammate so you may both work together to complete the task. You will each receive individual scores, but half of each score is dependent upon teamwork. There is a force field around the area, to ensure that you do not accidently wander. In order to leave, you will have to get back to your Portkey. If at any time you wish to resign, simply shoot up red sparks and one of the professors patrolling the zone will retrieve you.
"Now," he continued, sounding as though he had just run a marathon, "As for the task itself-I assume you've all heard of griffins?"
There was a small gasp from Collins, but as everyone else remained silent, Kennick continued. "There are two. Each griffin is guarding a nest of their eggs; among these eggs you will notice a silver one. That is what each team must collect. Each team is after a specific griffin-so, to get on with things-if one member from each team will please step forward and reach into this hat (he conjured one from midair with his wand) to decide which color griffin they are searching for. Guests first, yes?"
He offered the hat to Moriarty and Adler. Moriarty plunged his hand in without hesitation, and pulled a shiny white slip of paper from the hat.
Since Collins and Sherlock were not standing in close proximity to each other by any means, the ministry wizard offered the hat to Sherlock, as he was closest. Vaguely he wondered why this was necessary (he knew enough to not go after the white one), he grasped the only other piece of paper in his fist, crumpling it a bit, to see that it was a glossy black.
The man nodded. "Wonderful, wonderful. Now, are there any questions?"
"Um," said Collins hesitantly.
"Speak up, boy," barked Smith, the taller and scrawnier man.
"How will you know how well we performed individually and as a team if you won't be able to see us?" he asked quietly.
Kennick laughed loudly and suddenly, making Collins jump. "We're wizards, boy!"
"Oh. Right."
"Now, if that's all, we will continue to the stands. It is a bit of a walk, so let's see…" he pulled his wand out again, tapped the hat, and said "portus." It glowed blue for a moment, and then returned to looking like an ordinary hat. "If you'll all grab on, we'll be meeting you there by apparation."
John, unsure of what to do, grabbed a part of the hat nervously. He met Moriarty's gaze directly across from him, and repressed a shudder. After a few more exceptionally awkward seconds, John and Sherlock felt their feet fly off of the ground as they spun nowhere and everywhere, before they landed on rocky ground at the base of the mountains.
As they all dropped the portkey, there was an eruption of cheering behind them, and they turned around to see large stands filled with students (mostly from Hogwarts). A few members of the staff sat among them, but for the most part, Sherlock assumed that they were already stationed around the battleground.
"Good luck," John whispered to Sherlock; he gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder (he had to reach up a bit), and moved to join the assembled crowd, where he hoped some fellow Gryffindors were saving him a seat.
There was a loud crack, and Sherlock turned back towards the mountains to see the four judges standing before them. Kennick gave all of them an encouraging smile, which no one but Collins tried to return. Each judge moved to stand before one of the Champions, holding a seemingly ordinary object in his hand.
"The Portkeys!" Kennick announced with much bravado; his hand around a bouquet of flowers as he took his place in front of Irene, who looked an amusing mixture of amused, exasperated, and disgusted. The Durmstrang Headmaster naturally stood in front of Moriarty, holding a shiny black piece of flint. Dumbledore stood in front of Collins with a pair of fluffy woolen socks, and Smith stepped before Sherlock. At first, Sherlock hadn't seen what the man was holding, or he wouldn't have dismissed it as ordinary-it looked to him like a human skull, and his eyes were rarely, if ever, mistaken.
"Sonorous," Kennick whispered, pointing his wand at his throat with his free hand. "Champions, take your portkeys!" His voice boomed through the surrounding area, and was very nearly drowned out by the crowd. Sherlock rolled his eyes. This, Quidditch-he would never understand people and their enthusiasm for sport.
He carefully took the skull from Smith, his hands confirming it was very much real, and instinctively hugged it against his chest.
"The First Task will begin in three, two….ONE!"
Sherlock's vision was suddenly obstructed by a flash of blue, and he was again thrown into the void; as he felt the entire universe and all of space and time spin around him, he clutched the skull even more desperately as if it were an umbilical cord connecting him to everything that was solid and real. Just as he began to relax and an eerie sense of peace stole over him, his feet made contact with hard, rough, rock.
Sherlock shook his head, slightly disoriented by his second portkey in the past ten minutes. He looks around him, carefully observing his surroundings. He's facing the edge of the mountain; there is a sheer drop only inches away from his feet. Behind him and to his left is a steep precipice, impossible to climb. Naturally, his only choice is to go right.
Turning on his heel, he carefully hugged the side of the mountain, constantly wary of the placement of his feet. The path began to widen, and soon to his right was a narrow gap in the rock. Figuring it would take him someplace hopefully far away from the danger of falling to his death, Sherlock squeezed himself into the opening. He had to walk sideways in order to fit, and even then both his back and chest constantly brushed against the rock, tearing at the fabric of his shirt.
At one point he tilted his head back to look above him; the gap continued many meters above his head, but there was a faint sliver of sunlight that was peeking through, warming the dark curls atop his head. He was beginning to feel quite a bit claustrophobic (something that had never really bother him before), when the gap finally widened and he found himself in a comparatively open, rocky area.
Looking around, Sherlock realized that all sides of him were open, and an enemy could come from any direction. He suddenly felt as though many eyes were watching him, and darted back just inside the path from which he had come.
Drawing his wand, he whispered, "Diffindo!" A few chunks of rock broke off either side of the opening, and blocked the path from which he had come. Feeling a bit more relieved, Sherlock allowed himself to take a few hesitant steps forward into the sunlight.
Think, he chided himself. You can't just wander around aimlessly. You need to find the black griffin. It wouldn't be a cave; you're looking for a nest at a high elevation, like an eagle.
He gazed around him, wondering if there were any secret ways up to the tops of any of the precipices that surrounded him. He doubted it. The griffin would pick a spot that only it could access, so that no other predators would pose a danger to its eggs. So, it would be a precipice so high and so steep that you'd have to fly to it.
First find Collins, a voice in the back of his head reminded him.
What if I don't want to?
Tough luck.
I work better on my own.
They don't care. Half of your score is based off of teamwork.
What if I still don't care?
Don't be a prick. Suck it up and deal with it. He's not that
Yes he is but you're not going to lose to those Durmstrang students over a childhood grudge, are you.
Maybe I don't care.
YOUDOYOUDOYOUALWAYSCARE
Mentally kicking himself, Sherlock shook his head furiously, and forced himself to think. Where would Collins be?
Anywhere, really. Except the playing ground is limited. It has boundries. There are two griffins; they wouldn't be likely to nest within a two mile radius of one another. Considering this the area is at the least around four square miles. How the bloody hell is anyone supposed to find anyone? At least there's not a time limit. I hope. Kennick didn't say anything, but I suppose if we take too long we'll lose points. In fact, the team that completes the task first probably gets extra points for efficiency. That's probably half the skill score. So if I'm slow and work alone, the most I could probably get is a five. That'd be pretty pathetic. Okay, so basically, find Collins. Findcollinsfindcollinsfindcollins.
Although Sherlock would never admit it to John, he was seriously regretting his stubbornness in not communicating with Collins. They could have planned how to locate one another, how to communicate from a distance; Sherlock knew of ways that would work. But there's no use thinking about that now, he reminded himself, scrambling over a pile of rocks and making his way forward.
He considered his options; he could use the imperious curse on a bird, and have it find Collins. But no, that was illegal even if not used on a human, he would surely be disqualified at the least. He could use that other thing, but he was unregistered and would most certainly be disqualified for that. Unless, of course, Kennick was bluffing and they weren't watching.
As an eagle soared over his head, he racked his brains for a spell, any spell that might help. He had read about one; but he had never practiced it, he had never had the opportunity to. But he supposed that he may as well try. It was worth the risk of losing a point or two for shoddy spellwork.
Hoping against all odds that this would work, Sherlock raised his arm, pointed his wand at the eagle, closed his eyes, and whispered the incantation.
For a terrifying moment, everything went dark, and then-
He was flying, and he could see the rocky landscape down below him, everything looking so small, but so detailed; he saw a dark-haired boy far below, standing with his eyes closed as if asleep. He angled his wings, and soared over the boy's head, scanning for any other signs of life.
About a mile to the north, he spotted a frail boy with red-gold hair, scrambling amongst the rocks; he could smell the blood on him even from this distance, could sense the fear. The boy looked up at him in shock as he swooped down lower, before turning around and returning to the air. He angled himself again and soared to the east, up high among the rocky cliffs.
After a surprisingly short time, his sharp eyes detected a nest perched atop a high precipice; it contained a few eggs, one that glinted silver-black feathers were scattered around it.
Sherlock jerked back to consciousness with a gasp, and barely managed to keep his footing. He didn't know how long he had been…inside the eagle, but he knew that he had to hurry. Figuring his spellwork wasn't too awful, Sherlock decided it was worth the risk to apparate without a license. Picturing clearly in his mind where Collins was, he closed his eyes tight and spun in place.
After a rush of air, he opened his eyes to see a startled Jack only a few feet away from him. Sherlock stood there gasping, and shook his head. This was way more self-transportation than was good for him in so short a time. But it wasn't over quite yet.
"Collins," he began, a bit awkwardly. "Are you terribly hurt?"
Jack still appeared as though he had been petrified, but he stiffly shook his head. "J-just a few scrapes. Where are the others?"
"Good. And I have no bloody clue but I wouldn't be surprised if they've finished already. So we need to hurry. I know where the nest is."
"What? How?"
"No time for explanations. Can you apparate?"
"No! You can?"
"Obviously. Take my arm," Sherlock said, still a bit out of breath.
Jack looked a bit daunted, but he knew better than to ask questions at such a dire time, and interlaced his arm with Sherlock's. The dark-haired boy, still dizzy, cursed under his breath. "After all this, I'm going to be very dizzy when we land," he warned Collins. "And it'll be at the top of a very, very steep cliff. I'm trusting you not to let me fall, understand?"
Jack nodded, paling. Sherlock silently cursed the fact that he was required to place such an extreme amount of trust in the boy, but knew that desperate times called for desperate measures. "Good. I don't want to die for some bloody competition."
With another soft curse, he tightened his grip on Jack and pivoted into nothingness.
Upon landing, Sherlock managed to make himself fall forward into the nest, barely avoiding crushing the three real eggs that were there. His head was spinning, and he couldn't see much of anything; it was all a blur, but he was vaguely aware of Collins' hand on his shoulder. There were pins and needles in his fingertips, and overall he felt like crap. He sat there in the nest for a few minutes, letting his vision get back to normal and running his hands through the silky black feathers around the eggs. Sure enough, there was a shimmering silver one a few feet away from him, but the boy didn't have nearly enough energy to reach for it-or to speak, and tell Jack to pick it up.
"Are you okay?" the frail boy asked Sherlock hesitantly after another few moments of silence.
"Fine," Sherlock managed, which was a lie. He was convinced his head had fallen to pieces, and it made him uneasy knowing he didn't have complete control over his body. "I just-"
He was cut off as a shrill screeching noise carried towards them through the bitter air. "Bloody hell," muttered Sherlock, as he stumbled to his feet and plunged his hand into his pocket, grabbing his wand.
In a whirlwind of black, the griffin swooped from the air and landed on the other side of its nest, gazing at the two wizards with eyes full of hatred. Sherlock made every attempt not to moving, hoping it would dismiss them for nothing more than strangely shaped rocks. Unfortunately, Collins was shaking and they both probably reeked of fear and blood. The creature gave another piercing cry, and reared onto its back legs, its wings creating a torrent of wind around them.
Sherlock didn't know what to do; he was sure they weren't allowed to hurt the griffins. Self defense was one thing, but it hadn't exactly attacked them-yet. There was no way he was able to apparate…OH.
"Grab the egg!" he shouted at Jack, but not before the creature lashed forward, raking its claws down Sherlock's arm-as he was knocked backwards, he dropped his wand, clinging onto the rocks and branches around him for dear life.
Jack looked torn between helping Sherlock and grabbing the egg, and just as he lunged towards the dark-haired boy, the griffin noticed the oddity of the silver egg-and decided it was a threat to her own eggs. With one lash of her tail, she sent the egg flying off of the edge of precipice, just as Jack decided that the egg was more in need of attention.
And the idiot boy threw himself after it. Sherlock, whose brain was a mess of confusion and pain and shock, followed only half a second later. Plummeting through the air at a painful speed, he seized the back of Jack's shirt and used it to pull himself closer to the boy. He threw his arms around Collins' neck, and saw that the boy was clutching the silver egg to his chest. He was just about to apparate, before realizing that he didn't have his wand.
He cursed just about everything in the world as the ground rushed up to meet them; and then, finally, cursing his stupidity, he plunged his hand into Jack's pocket and grabbed the boy's wand, praying to Merlin that it would work for him at least a little. He wordless shot ropes out of the end of it, tightly securing himself to the other boy, before releasing him and bellowing, "Accio portkey!"
He shoved the wand back into his own pocket, and, precisely two seconds before they slammed into the rock, grabbed the skull in his shaking, blood-covered hands.
Sherlock's head was barely functioning. The first thing he was aware of was the pressure of Collins against his chest. The second was grass. Wonderful, soft, beautiful grass on his side. And then he became aware of the blood pouring from the gash on his arm, the immense pain all over his body, and the excruciatingly tight rope that bound him to the other boy. He grabbed the wand from his pocket and muttered "relashio", relieved to feel the ropes break away as he rolled onto his back, a few feet away from the other groaning boy.
He opened his eyes, and gazed up at the blueness of the sky, still clutching the skull in his other hand. He had never been happier to see mountains so far away from him.
He threw the wand in the direction of the other boy, who looked as though he hadn't moved a muscle. Forcing himself to focus, Sherlock slowly and painfully sat up. The world spun around him, and he would have fallen back down, had it not been for a sudden, steadying hand on his shoulder.
"John," he murmured, his lips like lead.
"Bloody hell Sherlock. You're a mess." The boy sounded beside himself with worry.
"Fine. Wha'ppened?"
"Huh?"
"Durmstrang back?"
"Yeah, they got back about ten minutes before you."
"Shit."
"Watch your language. And don't worry, the judges didn't look too pleased with their performance so I think you'll be…okay."
Sherlock gazed for a moment at the blonde boy crouching beside him, trying to decide whether or not he felt like cursing at him, and just generally being pissed at him for talking him into this whole thing in the first place. In the end, he decided two things: first, it wouldn't change anything anyways, and second, he was far too tired to exert the effort it took to be angry. He settled with a sigh, and laid back down, allowing himself to release the iron hold on consciousness he had tried to maintain for the past half hour.
You'll find out the results next chapter. Sorry for the kind-of cliffhanger, but it was longer than I had planned already. And I almost ended it at a much more suspenseful part.