Methods Beyond Magic

Running as fast as his legs could possible carry him, up the hill, over the grounds, in the entrance hall, the Slytherin scarf clinging desperately to his shoulders as he ran, leaving Victor alone down by the trees without any guilt whatsoever. At first Sherlock didn't know what to do, he leaned against the banister of the great stone stair case, catching his breath and massaging a stich in his side. The hall was surprisingly empty, he would've thought more people would be out celebrating the Slytherin's victory, but then again, only one house was excited. The other three were probably moping around, complaining how the Slytherins must've cheated. In all honestly, Sherlock was glad the Slytherins won, he was glad Victor got his goal, because one denial after another must be pretty painful. But no matter how much Sherlock would pity him, or how badly Victor felt or how much he positively begged, Sherlock could never be with a student, that wasn't just wrong, it was illegal and unethical. That look in Victor's eyes, the almost hungry, longing look, Sherlock had never seen anything so powerful in his life. He had never seen a look like that in someone's eyes; never had anyone wanted to be with him. He sighed, shivering a little bit even though he was indoors, safe from the cold and the wind, and looked down towards the lake. There was no movement, no figure that could be Victor, no sign of life at all. Sherlock was relieved about that, at least they didn't have to talk about it, at least, not until he could possibly think of a thing to say. Had Victor been his friend this entire time just to get better chances at ending up with him? Was he just pretending to love him for better test grades, was this all a scam, was this all a trick, just like Irene's, but better thought out? Had Victor been smiling at Sherlock through a mask, his real intentions lying just below the surface? No, of course not, that look in his eyes was like fire, catastrophic yet necessary for life, Victor was burning to be with Sherlock. Yet, once again, that was impossible. Sherlock almost gagged in disgust, thinking about the rumors that would be proved true if a relationship with Victor was ever unearthed. No, better to keep it a secret, better to keep his mouth shut, better to just be friends, if that was even an option at the moment. Sherlock sighed, straightening out his hair and taking the scarf off of his shoulders, bundling it up in a little ball so that it wasn't terribly obvious what he was carrying. As much as it disgusted him to finally figure out Victor's true intentions, he had to feel bad for the kid. He had been the hero of the quidditch match, yet no one payed him the scarcest bit of attention. He a genius, an athlete, and a great person, yet he was lonelier than Sherlock had ever been, and finally he had fallen in love with the only person he could never be with. And that didn't mean that Sherlock would abandon him, leave him down by the lake forever, never talk to him again, never discuss what happened, let him sit and burn in silence until finally the flame went out... That was inhumane and not what Victor deserved. He was a good kid, but his heart was leading him astray. Sherlock walked into the empty classroom, none of the torches lit, nothing but the hazy sunlight streaming in from the windows. It looked very sad, but right now, Sherlock didn't feel like it would be appropriate to lighten the place up. There didn't seem to be a good purpose to making the place when happy when he was feeling anything but. So he sat down at his desk, folding the Slytherin scarf neatly on the table in front of him and staring at it for a long while. Has Victor liked him ever since they had met? Ever since the train? Did Victor acknowledge Sherlock so much because he wanted his attention, did he battle for supremacy over John because he felt threatened? And if so, did John like Sherlock as well? So many questions, so many questions that Sherlock would've thought would be answered by the attempt by the lake, but in fact, it only opened more doors to more questions and less answers. Sherlock's head was swimming in confusion, the rumors that had gone through the school, the stories, the strange things Victor has done over the weeks, every smile, every elongated gaze, every hair ruffle, was he doing all of that to make Sherlock like him? And what did he mean, watching Sherlock when he thought no one was looking? Did that mean in the classroom, in the Great Hall, or in his office after hours, or while he slept? Was Victor a creepy stalker pretending to be an innocent school boy? Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning his head on his hands and trying to clear his mind of anything that had to do with anything. He tried to picture just blackness, empty space, but somehow, no matter how hard he tried, Victor's voice kept leaking through, "I want you to love me the way I love you." But that wasn't possible, that was never going to be possible and it never was. Sherlock wasn't going to be any one's challenge, anyone's reward, anyone's cheat for good exam grades. He was going to be a professor, unbiased, unattached, and logical. He skipped dinner that night, and lunch as well. Not just because he wasn't hungry (which was a factor of course, he felt as if he ate anything he would throw it all up again later), but mostly because he didn't want to have to face Victor. The poor boy probably wouldn't show up for the same reason, but Sherlock didn't want to see the empty chair, the triumphant Slytherin table, all cheering while Victor sat alone in his dorm, the curtains closed around the bed, mourning his mistakes. And Sherlock didn't want to face John either, the moody caretaker that had probably seen right though Victor's platonic disguise. Maybe that was why John hated him so much, because while Sherlock saw a friend trying to teach him to fly, John was more focused on how tightly Victor's arms were wrapped around Sherlock's chest as they soared through the air. Maybe John had been right about him this entire time, and had been too stubborn or even too in denial to tell Sherlock the truth. Or maybe he didn't speak up because he thought Sherlock felt the same way, that if Sherlock found out Victor liked him, that he would finally see the gates opened, that he could finally admit his own feelings to him. But that was preposterous, Sherlock never had any feelings for Victor, and even after the truth was revealed, the only feelings that unearthed were rather negative. So, as the sun went down, Sherlock got up, closing the door and pulling his curtains shut (who knows who could be watching?) and quickly changed into his pajamas. Billy was probably hanging out at the owlery, since his cage was empty and he wasn't delivering anything at the moment. As much as Sherlock would've liked company, he didn't mind being alone either, so he climbed into bed and stared at the dark ceiling, wondering if Victor was doing the same. Was he crying, was he hurting himself, was his heart broken? Was he mourning as if there had been a death, or was he planning a new strategy, a new speech to try to win over Sherlock's love? Sherlock tried to think of something to say, to make his own actions more understandable, but all he could hear, over and over again in his head, as Victor's speech, his starling declaration of impossible love.