Chapter Twenty
Final Impressions
As the weeks went by, late March faded into early April, and the light breeze that stroked the castle windows rose in temperature steadily. Lestrade joked on April Fool's Day that Professor Snape was out with a back injury, but John had to resist the urge to chew him out and swear when they walked into their last class of the day to find the vampire‒resembling teacher sneering at them all from behind his front desk. By mid month, Sherlock was conjuring his Patronus out of thin air as easily as scripting his name on parchment, and together his phoenix and John's wolf would dance through each other as if the two animals were pals in reality.
John went back to having Quidditch practices three times a week and occasionally would return to the Gryffindor common room to find Lestrade waiting for him. There were two options when this occurred, as John had used Sherlock's deduction skills to confirm this; Greg either was finishing up homework he hadn't bothered to complete earlier, or he claimed he couldn't sleep. John semi agreed to this fact depending on the day, because indeed one of their roommates tended to snore. It kept the Gryffindor awake some nights, so he would sit in the frame of the moonlit window, sometimes stroking his owl Athiel or curling up to read an entertaining novel.
It was towards the end of one of these Quidditch practices that Anthony stopped his team from changing in the locker rooms. "I'd like to make an announcement," he explained, lengthening his spine to its full extent and acting like a king.
"Look, we get it," Heather Dagmarc interrupted, flattening her scarlet robes so she could sit on the bench. She tried to mock the captain as the other six players acknowledged her attention. "We don't need another lecture on how we need to be 'the team to beat' this year. Practically everyone is rooting for Ravenclaw to win in the finals, but they'll only make it in if Hufflepuff brings the game on."
"And that's my point," Tony injected, pointing his finger at her slouched body. "While you all haven't heard, or I assume you haven't cause nobody's mentioned it but you Heather, but Ravenclaw is in fact in the final this year. Hufflepuff only lost by thirty points, which doesn't enforce enough for them to be in the final."
"Please." Chad O'Brien spoke up now, leaning against his vertical broom that stuck into the dirt. His hair was dirty blond and ruffled in the back. "No one ever expects Hufflepuff to make it into the Hogwarts Quidditch finals."
"Hey, they did a few years back," Greyskir told them all.
"By pure luck!" the Beater Chad argued.
"That's a lie! They almost won too. Slytherin only defeated them by two scores. So don't underestimate the badgers. You have no idea what they can or can't do." Riley Sherman rolled his eyes, snickering and clearly unimpressed with the yellow and black house. "I'm not going to allow Ravenclaw to win this year. We need to be the ones to beat them. We lions have to beat the eagles. This might be my last chance to win the Cup —"
"But you're still here for another year," Kelsey Monts commented. "We could just win next year."
"Good god you all are not being optimistic right now!" Tony bellowed, throwing his hands into the air.
"Yeah, come on guys!" It was Finn McKorrick's turn to speak up, his heavy Scottish accent ringing in the air. "We've all worked so hard! We're not just going to waste this opportunity. Besides, if Ravenclaw's the favorite this year, then we'll just have to show the school how tough we are."
The captain's hand flew out to indicate his Chaser's common sense. "Thank you! And come on," he continued, his loud voice lowering, "we've got a rookie Seeker. No one else does!"
"Uh, Slytherin does," John corrected him, pointer finger held up to prove the fact, even if the Slytherin team was out of the tournament.
"Whatever. My point is, we're in the final, we are going to play Ravenclaw, and we're going to win this thing!"The spirit in the changing room lifted and all three Chasers rose to their feet, jumping up and down in intimidation and pumping themselves up.
"Now hold up!" Fred yelled, waving his hands wildly. The whoops and noises died down, but the Chasers continued to hop on their toes, paying attention to their sport captain. "We still have two weeks till the game, so let's continue to stay focused, have energy, and play like a team! Alright, good job today everyone. Let's get changed and head back up to the castle."
John took his time slipping off his Quidditch robes and swapping them out for his plain black ones, glancing up occasionally as his teammates vanished from the depths of the tent, heading back up to Hogwarts. Tony Greyskir was surprised to see Watson still sitting on the bench when he came out of his dressing space, the Golden Snitch flying in front of his face with transparent battering wings rapidly beating.
"John?" The Seeker didn't move. He continued to stare at the tiny golden ball, examining the precise details revolving around its center.
"You okay, John?" the older Keeper tried again.
"Yeah. Just a bit stressed is all." He sniffed in his nose to breath in some of the fresh, early spring air.
"Why's that?" John was silent again."Oh, sorry. I guess it's personal business." His apology wasn't needed however.
"No no, it's fine. Just trying to figure out how I can cope with it all."
"Can I ask what you're stressed about?" Anthony sat down next to him on the bench.
John racked his brain, thinking about all the various mixed‒up events that were occurring in his school life. "Well, I guess it's mostly just homework. All the teachers have been giving out mounds lately because finals are coming up soon, and plus I've got Quidditch on top of that. I think there's something wrong with my best friend too. I just can't figure it out."
"Have you tried talking to them about it?" Tony suggested.
"Yeah. I even got his brother involved, and that didn't work out too well. And what if I choke during our final game or something? People might think I'm a joke…"
"John, stop." Greyskir shifted on his bottom and stared at his youngest player directly in the face. "You are not going to choke. You've helped us to win every game this year. Don't let the end get to you." With that he stood up and slapped Watson encouragingly across the back. The last of the trim on his black robes flew around the corner of the domed entrance, and then a short breeze was felt inside the tent as the Gryffindor Keeper vanished.
John sat licking his lips and pondering his situations. Stumped, he untied his shin guards and placed them in his compartment, then grabbed his bag used for sports and headed back up to Gryffindor Tower, alone.
It was a week and a half later that John returned to the common room after ten o'clock in the evening to find Lestrade hunched over a Chessboard piece. He was the only one seated in front of the red and orange fire, and the Quidditch Seeker slowly proceeded to join him.
"Lestrade, what are you doing?" His hand ran over the fuzzy lining of the armchair.
"I'm trying to do my Transfiguration homework!" he grumbled, scratching his jet‒black hair, which stuck up in endless directions.
"So?" John said, as if it was a piece of cake. "All you have to do is turn it into a thumbtack..."
"Yeah well, I can't do it!" Greg's tone was beginning to bubble and Watson could tell he was getting worked up over a tiny magic spell.
"Hey, don't worry about it," John assured him. "Why are you doing this now anyway?" he wondered, sitting on the arm of the chair. "It's late. Besides, we don't even have classes tomorrow. Just relax. You can watch the Quidditch game tomorrow, and then later we'll practice Patronuses. Just forget the homework for now, okay?"
The idea of going upstairs to sleep was glorious to Lestrade. Stupid spell, he thought. I'll deal with you later. "You're a saint, you are," he said, giving John a pat on the back," making me not have to do this."
He picked up the black Knight Chess piece and threw it across the room. It landed on the table in the far corner but kept sliding until it took a swan dive off the board. "Ah forget it," he told John, who had turned to pick it up. "Let's go to bed, I'm tired."
John followed the taller lion up the stone steps to their dormitory, and the two boys cautiously and as silently as possible tiptoed around in their room, aware and alert not to wake their fellow mates. John slipped into his pair of striped pajamas and climbed into his soft bed under the duvet. Within minutes Lestrade's deep breathing was heard to his right, but John remained awake for a few more hours, staring blankly up at the ceiling and wondering what the next day's outcome of the final match of the season would be.
In the morning John woke to find fair weather conditions for his Quidditch match, and he dressed casually in a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a red and black striped shirt for the short time before the game began.
As he made his way down to the Great Hall for breakfast, he spotted all the students wearing different colors to which team they'd support. If not all but most of the Slytherins were wearing blue and growled at the Gryffindors whenever one passed. Hufflepuff house was almost divided in half with supporters, but John entered the dining space to a small burst of cheers and claps from his friendly housemates.
He grinned, walking down the center aisle and taking a seat at the far end of the hall. A mysterious pair of hands draped a Gryffindor flag over his shoulders, and the sports player accepted it to show his spirit. Someone was instructing the scarlet and gold students to give the first year Seeker some space, and John thanked whoever it was by nodding and holding up one of his hands. Lestrade was already seated and stuffing his face with food, clearly having had a good night's sleep.
"Need a good breakfast today," he explained, intentionally flicking his fork at him. "It's the most important meal of the day." John knew he said it just to copy him, maybe even to irritate him.
"Very funny." The blond took a seat across from the other Gryffindor, finding that Sherlock was nowhere in sight, not there to greet him like he did every morning.
"You ready?" Greg asked, slamming his palms onto the table and making the orange juice in his goblet spill over the rim. His ridiculous grin came back to stare Watson in the face, and the little lion was forced to agree.
"Hell yeah!"
"Alright!" he beamed, leaning in for a high five. Lestrade's appetite was dominating and he went back to chewing his waffles. John decided to settle for some eggs and toast, something light but would keep him going throughout the game. He had a glass of milk waiting for him to chug his breakfast down, and he ended up with a tooth nerve freeze for nearly gulping the source of calcium down in a time of less than ten seconds.
"Tell him." A low voice grumbled over John's shoulder, and he spun around to find Sherlock sitting at the Ravenclaw table. No one was within four feet of him, and John didn't understand the demand. He acted normally and fired back a question like he'd been chatting away with Holmes for hours.
"Tell who what?"
"You know what I mean."
"No, I really don't."
"You've never noticed after all this time? I'm surprised I didn't. God, it's been months now —"
"What the hell are you talking about?" John was getting a little ticked off now.
"Lestrade! He's holding his knife the wrong way!" Just, what the hell, Sherlock? Watson swore in his brain.
"Jesus…" John rolled his eyes at the unrelated Quidditch reference and off topic deduction. "That's what's been bothering you?"
"Shut up." John giggled and grabbed his upper arm as the Ravenclaw started to turn away.
"Why aren't you sitting with us?"
"There are too many people around. I can't bear to have people staring at me right now." Sherlock took a large bite out of what looked like a small omelet, and John settled the matter by suggesting an idea.
"I think I'm receiving the most popularity at the moment." Like I need any, he quoted, the pit of his stomach suddenly lurching downwards. "Do you want to head down to the field now? I don't mind."
"Just get me out of this crowded space," Holmes pleaded, and John grabbed him by the wrist as he stood up.
"Wait wait wait," the Gryffindor with the black hair questioned, mouth full of crunchy, chocolate chip waffles. John answered before he could ask 'where are you going?'
"We're heading down now," John said, thrusting his thumb to the hall's exit.
"Why? We were going to start a celebration. A party!" Greg smiled and shrugged his shoulders innocently.
"You can start and save the celebration till after the game," John chuckled, switching his attention to his only Ravenclaw friend. The twelve‒year‒old followed the shorter blond like a coasting ocean wave, John crunching on a buttered piece of toast as he strolled from the dining area.
"You okay?" John asked, closing the great front doors of the school. The late April wind brushed his blushing cheeks, and he suddenly regretted just a touch why he was eating his first meal of the day.
"Yeah," Holmes lied. "Just a little claustrophobic is all. I can't stand the amount of stupidity that was exposed in that room."John laughed and nearly spit out his food. He coughed a couple times before swallowing his toast, blinking back tears in his eyes and avoiding the gurgles to escape from his throat. He finished off the last of his breakfast and rubbed his hands together, the crumbs spilling from his fingers.
"Well," John cocked his head, bringing up a known fact, "I can tell you now that a lot of us players are going to make stupid mistakes today."
"You're not though." Watson stopped in his tracks, as Sherlock had a few feet back. The large crowd of students accompanied by professors was making their way down to the field walked snail‒like over to his little buddy, who stood staring at him in shock and error, trying to absorb the information into his mind all at once. A light hold was felt on his wrist, and he looked down after knowing that feeling for months.
"To be honest," Holmes said to him, and then leaned forward to whisper into his ear. "I'm rooting for you."
John swayed on his heels and leaned back a little in misconception, glancing up at the curly‒haired Ravenclaw. He stuttered, failing to find the right words. "You…you're not going to root for your own team?"
"I'd rather support someone I care about than a whole team I don't know." Man, did that make the lion's heart race. Holmes had to make the Quidditch Seeker snap out of it, and once he'd accomplished his task they were able to continue with their stroll. He led John down to the changing tent with his hand buried deep in his pants' pockets, and he stopped at the entrance to turn and face the athlete.
"Good luck." There's the squeeze I've been waiting for. John smiled and his hand floated up to rub against Sherlock's smooth face. The brunette grabbed John's palm and expressed love with his bright green eyes. Before John headed off to change into his Quidditch robes, he ruffled Sherlock's curls just for fun.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"And here come the players to begin the Hogwarts Quidditch final!" Sally Donovan's strong voice echoed over the microphones surrounding the stadium, and an explosive roar blinded the players' ears as both teams came sprinting out onto the field. Every seat in the stands was full. Even students who hated the sport had shown up to watch the thrilling matchup between the two houses. And then again, John didn't understand how people could've disliked Quidditch.
"Today, we're about to witness a thrilling clash between the Gryffindor lions and the Ravenclaw eagles!" The players in the scarlet and navy blue robes rushed to meet each other in the center of the pitch, and Madam Hooch stood guarding the chest full of athletic equipment. She was dressed in her usual black robes, and as a referee she never sided with any of the teams in particular.
Anthony Greyskir shook hands with the Ravenclaw captain, who politely wished him good luck, and he returned the acknowledgment. Madam Hooch ordered the captains to rejoin their squads, now facing towards each other with the entire school bouncing in their seats, waiting for the final game to kick off.
"Now, just like all others, I want this Quidditch final to have good sportsmanship." Madam Hooch was stern as she gave her spiel to the fourteen players. Two of the Ravenclaw Chasers exchanged giggling looks, and John knew exactly what they were thinking.There hasn't been a clean Quidditch match in history…
"Players, mount your brooms." All the students, from ages eleven to eighteen, short or tall in height, swung their legs over the handles to grip the brooms under themselves. John felt a light breeze brush over the wood of his protection pads, and he briefly checked the sky to find that clouds had hovered over the stands, leaving darker shady spots at the bases of where the large posts surrounded the field. There was one advantage for a Seeker when clouds littered the sky, and that was the fact that John didn't have to squint minimally in order to seek out the Snitch.
The disadvantage to playing under clouds was if it started to rain. Droplets of water would pour from the concentrated white clumps, soaking the scarlet and royal blue robes and making them heavier in weight than they already were. Watson didn't fancy having a hefty cape tugging on his collar bone, pulling him further down to the earth and slowing down his racing speed. Not to mention the stinging water entering the gaps of his eyes and falling off the individual strands of his blond hair.
Madam Hooch, acting as the fair judge of the game unclasped the locks on the school trunk to release the lethal Bludgers and the Snitch into the air. John got one snapping second to hear its fluttering wings beat before it flew off to hide from the stadium's view, never to be seen under a Seeker held it in their hand to claim the glory for their team.
The adult tucked the Quaffle under her left elbow, closing the trunk skillfully with her foot and facing the young teenagers. "You may now kick off the ground," she informed them, and in individual groups the members of both teams dug their cleats into the grass in order to shoot off like rockets into the late morning air.
The fans got excited and were exuberant before John had a chance to fasten the position of his feet onto his broom hooks, supplying them in a snug space. Sally Donovan's voice was almost dominated from the eruption of shouts primarily from the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, but she was yelling into the microphone with two hands cuffed around the announcer.
"And the players are lining up! Madam Hooch is about to begin the game!"
"Donovan!" A new, fierce and womanly voice entered the stream of the noise, and John concluded that it was Professor McGonagall. "Do lower your voice! We don't need the surrounding countries to hear you!"
"Sorry, Professor…" John looked down at the ground to find the referee standing directly in the center of the painted white circle on the field, rubbing the Quaffle in her gloved hands. There was a quick peek from Watson as he watched his enemy Seeker across from the circle of players. She was a very pretty girl, a fifth year who was fifteen going on sixteen with long, flowing, glossy black hair and stormy grey eyes. She'd pulled back her mane in a tight braid with a dark blue ribbon to tie it off on the end.
A flying red sphere whizzed through the center of the kids, blocking John's view of the girl in her colored robes. All was silent as the school leaned in to discover who would intercept the playing ball first. That is until Donovan cut in to boost the suspense. "She's thrown the Quaffle into the air. They're itching to tackle each other and retrieve it."
"Donovan…" Professor McGonagall's voice was a whisper but the microphone absorbed the noise and her name was heard anyway. Tony was inching his way around his defending goalposts without anyone noticing, and the Chasers exchanged sneers all in the span of a fraction of a second.
Madam Hooch blew a hard exhale into the opening of her whistle, raising her arm into the air to give the players the starting signal. "And the game is underway!"
John commanded his broom to fly upwards and yanked the hilt away from the mob of cat‒fighting teammates. His brain knew the safest route was to avoid jumping into the traffic jam, so he shot up in height to circle the stadium and gain a better view. The Ravenclaw seeker had embarked over to the far corner near the Hufflepuff benches, stuck out like a sore thumb among the mass of yellow and black. John kept his ears peeled for updates on the score, swinging his legs in boredom while searching for the Snitch.
A loud outburst resembling a tiger escaped from the Ravenclaw stands, and John muttered a few angry words under his breath to tell his team to do better. "It's thirty to zero, Ravenclaw," Sally announced, and the groans and boos grew from the scarlet and gold supporters.
Sherlock pushed his way through the crowd of superexcited Gryffindors, getting smacked in the face by small flags and banners people were waving to root for their team. His two friends were located in the front row of the lowest bench with a large sign nailed to the outside stadium wall underneath, bearing in curly letters the message, Let's go lions! Lestrade had his Gryffindor scarf draped around his neck, wearing a matching t‒shirt that showed off his chest muscles. Molly was at his side, waving a small flag she'd borrowed from a friend and jumping up and down, her ginger ponytail twirling like a whip around the circumference of her skull.
Sherlock ducked his face around Molly's dangerous hair, tapping her on the shoulder to get her attention. "Hey Sherlock!" she smiled, lowering the rectangular flag to her side. Greg hadn't noticed and was yelling at the top of his lungs.
"Hey John, catch the Snitch already!" He had his hands cupped around his mouth to project the sound, but there was no way the blond would be able to hear his friend's rants.
"Calm down you," Holmes lectured, rubbing the kneaded muscles in Lestrade's upper back. "Don't be surprised if he doesn't catch it for a while," he informed the buff boy. "No doubt if this game continues for another ten minutes a storm with boil up," he grumbled, watching the grey clouds monopolize the white ones.
Molly twisted her neck sideways to see Hagrid at the end of their bench, taking up what would have been about four student seats. None of the surrounding kids were frightened by him, simply because they were too lured into the details of the match to pay attention. The tallest of the three amateurs took out his pair of binoculars from his back pocket, zooming the lens in on his best friend high above. John was drifting from side to side, scanning the skinniest spaces the Snitch could squeeze into.
But that's when John saw it. Lingering near the Ravenclaw goalposts about four feet to the left, the Golden Snitch glinted in the only remaining sunlight rays left peeking through thin gaps divided in the sky. He dove, plastering his chest to the handle of his broom and racing to catch the sports ball before it dodged out of sight. His rivalry Seeker was delayed in finding that he'd seen the Snitch, but she too flew after him when she felt the rush of wind as he passed graze her face.
It was hard to stay focused with hundreds of students yelling, urging him on, but all that mattered was him catching the Snitch, earning his team an extra hundred and fifty points to win the Quidditch Cup. John was praying with all his strength that the Snitch wouldn't skid around his outstretched arm, but there were no promises ever when trying to catch a ball with a diameter of less than three inches.
John flicked his hand forward, compressing his fingers closed like a lobster claw. He felt the crusty surface of the Snitch's wing before it gave a tremendous tug out of his grasp and sped away. Cursing, he snapped his fingers in vexation and then widened his eyes in alarm as the stadium wall was coming closer and closer.
He swerved and diverged his body weight in the opposite direction to avoid slamming into the barrier. His right foot touched the wall delicately and he pushed off with ease, heading back into the function of the game. The blond Gryffindor shifted up a few yards to ignore the bellowing Slytherins behind his back. His hearing picked up that his team was now within twenty points of tying the game, but he considered the only hope for his team winning now was if he ended the match.
Suddenly there was a rumble that shook the ground, and simultaneously Ravenclaw missed a shot on the center goal hoop, blocked by the enemy Keeper. "Crap," John muttered, tightening the strings that held his cloak together. Freezing water droplets drained into his blond hair, and the atmosphere rearranged as students tried to keep themselves dry under whatever they could find. The clouds had cracked open from the expanding water pressing against their silver borders, and John flung the rain from his forehead.
Lightning flashed across the sky, causing many kids below to freak and scream out in terror. Madam Hooch's whistle rang out over the startled voices and loud bangs, and John assembled with his team down on the ground as they took a timeout.
"Jesus, this is bad luck," Anthony yelled over the powering wind, and Heather joked around by pretending to take a shower in the rain. She scratched her damp hair and massaged her scalp, feeling refreshed after partially playing a tough game and sweating it out.
"Alright, I can barely see in this downpour," Sherman told his own team.
Greyskir brought on his captain voice, watching Finn McKorrick graze his side. "If you just keep the Quaffle down near the Ravenclaw goalposts, we should be able to hold their lead. You doing okay, John?"
"No, not really," John spat out, shaking his head as rain coursed through the gaps in his teeth. "I almost had the Snitch! I could've ended the game earlier if it hadn't slipped out of my grasp…"
"It's okay," the captain promised him, slapping his youngest player on the arm, which resulted in a squishing noise from the rain drenching John's robes. "Just do your best searching for the Snitch and end this game as quickly as possible!" There was frustration in his tone as he bellowed over the pounding wind.
"Alright, let's go! Let's win this thing!" Chad O'Brien was still pumped up even after forty minutes of play, and the team huddled up to get back in the game.
John's tiny hand was stacked in the middle of the pile of arms, and they chanted out loud before splitting off into the stadium once more.
"Ready?" Tony led the spirited chant. "One… Two…Three, lions!"
Mud kicked up from the earth as John's cleats jumped into the air. The bottom hem of his Quidditch robes were stained with wet dirt, and the weight from the rain soaking in his clothes made it harder to fly at his supreme speed.
There were more rumbles of thunder, and John held his arm over his head in his dormant stance to act as a shield to crystallize his vision, but there was no effect whatsoever.
"Seriously, can't they delay the match or something?" Lestrade held a large Gryffindor flag over his head like the Grim Reaper's cloak, and Molly leaned against the wall with her hands covering her mouth.
"They can't do that unless the weather conditions get extremely severe," Sherlock explained as the rain traced the outlines of his precious curls. "Why the rain had to strike now, I don't know."
Molly shuddered and brushed the excess water from her yellow poncho. "I think I'm going to head back to the castle," she told the boys, shoving her head in the direction of the school where some fans had sprinted back for recovery.
"Oh, no you aren't," Lestrade rejected, grabbing her upper arm. Molly frowned and was forced to stay for the remainder of the game, but the space around them became more open as kids ran for cover.
Sherlock's binoculars had fogged up so he couldn't follow his best friend up in the sky and see all the features on his face. John was having trouble controlling his broom against the intensity of the wind gusts, and Sherlock flinched every time he slithered with his grip.
The slippery, polished surface of the broom handle was too much to take in, and in one wrong and terrifying moment John lost his grip. He did an uncontrollable somersault in mid air, fortunate to keep one palm connected to the handle of his broom. His right foot remained hooked on to the secured strap, but he had to hang on for dear life as his fingers fumbled on the wood.
A lot of people in the stands had noticed and were pointing up at him, one being Sherlock Holmes in particular. He was grabbing fractions of his own hair to keep himself from crying out, and he mumbled little begging thoughts to make sure his friend didn't suddenly topple off and fall freely to the ground, surely the end result being death or serious injury.
Of course, Watson had to make the wrong decision and stare down at the ground, and he gulped a few times in fear. His cape fluttered as the wind picked up ferociously, and he stared up at his clinging hand as if to ask it to stay attached. Using his muscular strength in his arms and abs, John gathered enough endurance to hoist himself back onto his broom, breathing heavily.
"John!" Someone on his team was yelling his name, but it was blurred out by Sally Donovan entertaining the crowd with some emphasizing commentary.
"JOHN!" He whipped around to see Riley Sherman stopped in his tracks, his Beater bat slung against his thigh. Kelsey wasn't far behind him, waiting for a pass of the Quaffle from a teammate.
"WHAT?" There was no other option but to shout back.
"Get your act together and catch the Snitch!"
"I'm working on —" He was cut off by a blinding flash lighting up the sky, nearly making him go blind as he batted his eyes and saw clumps of glowing lights. And John saw the imprint of the Golden Snitch hovering above the elongated flag on the teacher's stands. He immediately headed for the sky, trying to make his broom go faster in the pressure from the downpour.
His neck rotated around to see the Ravenclaw Seeker not ten feet from his tail, but he continued to urge forward with haste. His right arm extended out to grab the Snitch and close the game…
"AH!" Another bolt of lightning came down from the clouds overhead, nearly missing John's elbow by a few inches. It almost brushed his skin and he could feel the heat from the electricity in his blood. His greatest relief was that he didn't somehow manage to fall off his broom. With one last ravening thrust of his arm, John's fist enclosed around the lumpy sphere of the Golden Snitch.
It took his teammates quite a few moments to recognize that their Seeker and youngest player had the game‒winner clasped in his hand, but they were aware when John flew down from the blurred view screaming excitedly.
"I got it!" John gripped his broom between his knees and held both fists in the air in a triumphant manner. Madam Hooch's whistle blew one final time before John screamed again. "It's in my hand! I've got —"
Too late. From beyond the mist, Chad had jumped on top of him, nearly knocking and toppling him over. Next second, Heather and Finn lifted his back up to sing happily, and his entire team made a small bubble around him.
"We've won the cup! We are the champions!" Anthony Greyskir was so happy tears had sprouted from his eyes, and John thought it was hard to tell if his was crying from the rain dotting his face. The three Gryffindor Chasers were cheering and making howling noises, and the Beaters clunked their bats together to make clicking sounds.
He was embraced in an endless fray of hugs, and someone ruffled his hair to mold in the shape of a mini Mohawk. Slowly, the team lowered to the squishy ground where a mass of lion housemates had gathered to join in on the celebration.
John managed to break free of the pairs of hands tugging at his uniform, and he was thrilled to see Sherlock, Molly, and Lestrade skipping over to where he stood with his adorable smile on his face. Sherlock's strides served as an advantage, and the taller twelve‒year‒old had his only friend locked in a hug, absorbing the soaked clothes but not caring in the slightest. A brilliantly colored Gryffindor flag with a lion was glued to his sticky back, and he grabbed it in his fists to embrace the two first years in the winning symbol. "I'm so proud of you," Holmes muttered in their circle. "You're the main winner today."
Teachers ran about, setting up the ceremony of the Quidditch Cup final as hastily as possible, and Sally Donovan's voice still echoed over the megaphone. The Ravenclaw players came over to congratulate the number one ranked team, shaking hands with all the players, and John switched the Snitch to his left hand as he greeted all the students in blue robes, commented on how remarkably some of them fought it out till the very end.
He kept that Snitch. He never told anyone but Sherlock and Madam Hooch, who he'd asked to keep in his possession before burrowing it in the depths of his scarlet robes. There was no way he could throw away or abandon the memory of catching the Snitch in his first Quidditch final of his career.
The lions assembled onto the podium where Albus Dumbledore stood, an umbrella protecting his long beard from the rain, half‒moon spectacles perched on the bridge of his crooked nose with the Quidditch Cup standing by his side. The mob of interested students crowded at the base of the stage, getting as close as they could to catch a glimpse of the glossy, silver trophy.
Professor Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, announced the year's Quidditch Cup winners, and delightfully handed the prize over to the captain. As Anthony showed it off to the world, the fans showed their approval by shouting as loudly as they could over the noise of the booming storm.
One by one, the victorious players lifted the trophy above their heads. Some kissed it with thanks, and other shook it back and forth in gloriousness. John, being the shortest team member and the last in line, was handed the trophy by Heather Dagmarc, who also passed on her smile to his lips. He took the cup by the bumpy handles, and with such a beaming sensation filling his heart, he raised it into the air above his head as a mass of monumental emotion wiped over his body.
If only his parents were there to congratulate him, to feel proud about their son and his effortless work he put into winning the tournament. But it didn't matter.
Because Sherlock was there as a replacement. Leaning up against the nearest post, legs crossed, clapping along with the rest of the viewers. If only all the spotlights in the world could be directed onto the everlastingly astounding team, then the school could really pick out their talents.
"This calls for an after party!" Chad and Kelsey chimed in on their way back up to the castle, and the Gryffindor players were dragged along in the crowd back up to their home common room.
It would've been the best festival ever, drinks, food and all, but only if Sherlock Holmes was there to share it with his only best friend.
"What's on your mind?"
John Watson lounged back in a purple lounge chair, flexing his tired muscles in the Room of Requirement about a month later. Piles of books were scattered on the reflected floor, and Sherlock stood gazing out of the window that looked down to Hagrid's cabin. His question had come with curiosity, and the older friend rubbed a tiny section of his bent elbow.
No answer was received, so John set his Hawthorne wand on the floor by his knees. "Is this too much studying? We can stop if you want to."
"No, it's not that," Sherlock promised him. Over the past few weeks their professors had pounded them with stacks of homework to complete each night in preparation for their upcoming end‒of‒year finals. "You enjoy it?" Sherlock switched subjects, and John's brow shrunk in puzzlement.
"Enjoy what? Studying? Don't even get me started…"
"No. Not having Quidditch practices anymore?"
"Oh! Yeah, I suppose so. I kind of miss it," Watson admitted, but on the other hand was glad he didn't have to deal with the extracurricular activity. "I'm happy but sad at the same time. I mean we won, I no longer have to worry about it, yet I feel like some monstrous weight has been lifted off my chest you know?"
The only part of Sherlock's body that moved was his left eyebrow, accepting the statement.
"You getting any better with your Patronus?" John asked, tracing the outline of a fungus stem in his Herbology textbook.
"Mhmm," Sherlock hummed.
He'd stopped thinking though and narrowed his eyes, watching the edge of the Forbidden Forest with convergence. For he thought he saw an unfamiliar shadow among the border of the Gamekeeper's pumpkin patch, and he tried to look more closely.
"Sherlock?" John's throat let off a sort of squeak, rising in pitch.
I'm not crazy. He had seen something, because slowly from hidden in the darkness a mysterious figure trotted out from the depths of the trees. It was only enough for the suspicious boy to take in the shape for a split second. The noise interrupted the alarmed look on his face as his name was repeated.
"Sherlock?"
I thought it was gone. I thought it didn't exist. I thought it was just a trick.
Hidden and melting back in the shadows was a gigantic hound. Sharp claws visible from a significant distance away, cold, black fur growing all over its body with startling, burning red eyes.