Work Text:
“I know nothing – nothing – about Wizarding Christmas traditions.”
Sherlock Holmes stood in the middle of the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on a Saturday in early December, watching Hagrid haul in the sixth of the promised twelve Christmas trees. This tree was at least twelve feet tall, and Hagrid maneuvered it into the stand with ease and held it upright while Professor Flitwick set the stabilizing spells.
“There’s nothing to know,” John assured him. He had promised Sherlock to help decorate, but was currently watching the proceedings from a bench at the Slytherin table, facing outward with elbows propped on the table behind him while a half dozen faculty members worked to decorate the first five trees. “Wizards celebrate Christmas just like Muggles. Except with fairy lights.”
“Fairy lights?” Sherlock frowned.
“Do you see electrical outlets in the castle?” John asked
“No, but fairy lights? What is the source of illumination? Is it phosphorescence?”
John exchanged a smile with the headmistress, who, until Sherlock’s diatribe started, had been decorating the tree closest to them. She shook her head fondly, and turned back to her task.
“I don’t know – maybe.” John shrugged. “Why don’t you go take a look? The headmistress has a box of them on the floor right behind her.”
“A box of what?” Sherlock craned his neck, looking puzzled.
“You’re pretty obtuse for the world’s only consulting detective,” grumbled John. “You’re going to be practically useless when you get back to London and have to start solving crimes again.”
“Might I remind you that I’ve solved cases here too?” Sherlock said. “A box of what?”
“A box of fairies, you idiot.”
“Fairies do not come in boxes,” stated Sherlock adamantly.
Minerva scooted a cardboard box across the floor with a wave of her wand. “There’s a viewing pane – to check the colours,” she explained. “Do not open it unless the box is under the tree when you do so. If the fairies scatter and decide not to roost in the tree, you’re going to have to go out to the forest yourself and gather more.”
Hagrid, heading out to fetch the next tree, scoffed.
“Good luck wi’ that, perfessor. You’ve got to go at night to see ‘em. Took me a month to get eno’ fer the Hall.”
“Forest?” Sherlock’s intense gaze moved to the box on the floor between himself and the headmistress. The Forbidden Forest did not deter him. The word “Forbidden,” in fact, made it all the more attractive.
“Go on - look,” John tempted him with an encouraging smile.
Sherlock still looked a bit dubious, which might seem odd given he’d been living in a magical castle since August. But despite his recent magical immersion after the Sorting Hat had declared he would be the Muggle Studies professor, science was still his foundation, and even when he accepted magical phenomena, he still wanted to know why and how.
Minerva had stepped back from the tree she’d been decorating. She watched Sherlock approach the box she’d set out for him, her mouth fixed in a tightly controlled line, but her eyes crinkled at the corners. John knew that Sherlock’s presence in the castle had been both a blessing and curse this term – he was constantly getting into trouble, yet amused her so much that she nearly forgave him the other. Sherlock, for his part, pulled from one robe pocket an over-sized magnifying lens as he extracted his wand from the other.
“Hmm,” he said, frowning down at the box. He dropped effortlessly into a lotus position and used his wand to pull the box forward.
Literally used his wand, John noted. Leaned forward, stuck it out, placed the tip on the box lid, applied pressure, and dragged it toward himself.
“Accio, anyone?” John suggested.
“Didn’t want to damage any delicate contents,” Sherlock responded as he peered into the box. He jumped back as the box suddenly glowed with a pale blue light, then positioned the magnifying lens over the view window and had another look.
“There’s nothing in here,” he stated, turning back to look at John suspiciously, as if the lack of contents in the box was somehow John’s responsibility.
John stood and walked over to stand beside Sherlock. He peered into the box himself. The blue glow was now augmented by a soft gold. He smiled. “The only part of a fairy a human can see is the light. The glow is really spectacular at night.”
“Here – allow me.” Minerva stepped over and plucked the box out of Sherlock’s hands. “Step back – they don’t like a lot of commotion when they’re getting established.”
She placed the box on the floor and gently scooted it forward – using spellwork, unlike her Muggle Studies professor –until it was well under the branches of the Scots pine. She then levitated the lid off the box.
Sherlock watched as the soft, dancing lights filled the tree, rapidly moving from bottom to top and from trunk to the tips of the branches.
“Fairies roost in conifers,” Minerva said. She watched as the fairies began to settle in the tree, then turned to Sherlock. “They take to Christmas trees – doesn’t seem to upset them in the least as they enjoy the warmth of the Hall.” She nodded at Sherlock. “So, Professor Holmes, I think you’ll find that all the traditions of the Muggle world exist here with us, with slight…alterations.”
She smiled as a sprig of mistletoe, placed over the doorway that led into the Entry Hall, suddenly shot toward them, dancing through the air until it hovered directly over Sherlock’s head. John laughed as Sherlock looked upward, the same suspicious look he’d given John earlier back on his face.
“Not fair,” he stated. He swatted at the offending decoration, but it avoided his hand and circled above him, just out of reach.
“It won’t leave until someone kisses you,” John explained. “Charmed mistletoe is really stubborn, Sherlock.” He tugged on Sherlock’s arm and leaned in to kiss him, but Sherlock pushed him away.
“As much as I enjoy kissing you, I’m not about to let a parasitic plant determine my act – .”
“Delivery from Weasley’s Wizarding Wheazes!”
The decorators looked up from their task as George Weasley strode into the Great Hall, followed by a small mountain of brightly-coloured boxes.
“Ah – our Christmas crackers have arrived,” said Minerva. “Delivered by the proprietor himself. To what do we owe this honour, Mr. Weasley?” She studied the papers George handed her, then quickly counted the boxes. “Why don’t we allow Professor Holmes and Mr. Watson to try out a cracker before I sign? Make sure everything’s on the up and up? Professor Holmes was just wondering how Wizarding Christmas traditions differ from those of our Muggle friends.”
John, looking gobsmacked, glanced from George to Minerva. “Hogwarts purchases Christmas crackers from Weasley’s Wizarding Wheazes? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Minerva raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Weasley would not dare risk losing my business, or my good graces,” she said. “After the first year, when the box of crackers with live roaches accidentally got mixed into our order, we’ve had no trouble, have we, Mr. Weasley?”
George grinned. “Oh course not. No trouble at all. Thirty-six dozen Christmas crackers, certified to be appropriate for children of all ages.” He reached into his pocket and brandished a scroll, which he allowed to unroll until the end reached the floor. “The list of banned materials, dated October first of this year, the day the order was placed. You’ll note the eighteen newly banned items appended to the end of the list, as directed.”
“We add to the list each year,” Minerva said, turning her attention to John and Sherlock. “You wouldn’t believe how easily this young man finds loopholes. Rather a challenge, he is.” No matter how severely she looked at George, no one missed the pride in her voice.
George tucked away the list and opened a box, seemingly at random, and extracted a red and gold foil-wrapped cracker. He tossed it toward Sherlock, who grabbed it out of the air and studied it.
“This is roughly twice the size of a Muggle Christmas cracker,” he stated. “And three times heavier.” He turned it in his hands. “Wrapping materials of a far better quality than the average cracker, carefully folded and tucked, quality workmanship.” He held it to his ear. “I don’t hear any cockroaches.” He extended an end to John. “Ready?”
John looked around him, noting that both Minerva and George had taken moved several steps back and away from them. He shook his head in resignation and took hold of the other end of the cracker. “This is against my better judgment, mind you,” he said.
“One, two, three!” counted Sherlock.
John held on to his end, shielding his eyes with his arm, while Sherlock pulled.
A fine mist of glitter, red and gold and green and silver, exploded into the air between them, settling down over their heads and shoulders.
Oh. My. God.
Sherlock blinked glitter-covered eyelids, his lashes sparkling with colour. A slow smile spread across his handsome face, and his high cheekbones were even more prominent as they shimmered in the fairy light from the tree. His lips, coated in a thin film of glitter, parted slightly.
“John,” he said, and his voice cracked as he took a step forward. “Oh, John….”
“Sherlock,” John rasped. His tongue swiped across his own lips to wet them, and he exhaled slowly, and stood up straighter. “Jesus – Sherlock – Sherlock….”
Seconds later, they were writhing together on the floor, John straddling Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock’s hand working itself into John’s trousers as they kissed and rutted. Around them, all decorating had stopped and every faculty member present stood gaping at them.
“Um – oops?” said George, giving Minerva a not-so-contrite smile. “That one wasn’t supposed to be in there.”
“Aguamenti!” shouted Minerva, turning her wand on Sherlock and John like a fire hose.
The force of the water knocked John off of Sherlock, and the two sprawled, sputtering, on the floor. Sherlock surreptitiously tugged his robes over his midsection but John, in his Muggle clothes, had no recourse but to lie there with an obvious bulge in his trousers.
Minerva turned menacing eyes on George.
“What, Mr. Weasley, was in that Christmas Cracker?” she threatened.
“Lust dust, I think?” he said, as if asking Minerva instead of answering her question.
“Lust dust,” she repeated, her voice menacingly calm.
“I have no idea how that happened. The Hogwarts crackers must have gotten mixed up with the lot meant for Madam Puddifoot.”
“Where’s my crown?” asked Sherlock in a small and petulant voice. He was still lying on the floor, several feet away from John.
“Your crown?” John replied. He pushed up on his elbows, then slipped back down onto his back. He turned his head toward Sherlock. “What crown?”
“From the cracker. Don’t Wizarding crackers have paper crowns?”
“We go one better,” exclaimed George. “Here you go!”
He bent to pick up one of the hats that had sprung from the cracker with the lust dust. He held it over Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock groaned.
“A bridal veil.”
“Top hat for me, then,” John said, grabbing the other hat and batting away Sherlock’s hand as he tried to exchange them.
“Take the whole lot back,” Minerva said, pointing her wand at the stack of boxes and banishing them. They scooted, as reluctantly as boxes could scoot, out the door and into the Entry Hall. She turned and shot a drying charm at Sherlock and John. “No lust dust. Item twenty-two on the list specifically forbids any potion-treated or spelled item that will affect behavior, either temporarily or permanently.”
George grinned. He didn’t seem at all upset to have made the trip to Hogwarts for naught. “Fine. I’ll have Eddie go through the entire lot. Tomorrow alright, then? Sometime after noon?”
Minerva nodded curtly. “Mr. Weasley – if I’d tried that cracker with Hagrid –”
“Ooh.” Sherlock grimaced.
“Witnessing you two rutting on the floor like crups in heat was not exactly a balm for my tired old soul, Professor Holmes,” chided Minerva.
Sherlock climbed to his feet, then extended a hand to John and helped him stand.
“I think I’ve had all the Wizarding Christmas I can tolerate for a day,” he stated. “And I have sufficient material for my special unit lesson plans. In fact, John, you’ll need to send Mrs. Hudson out for traditional Muggle Christmas crackers – let’s see – a hundred should suffice.”
“Right. A hundred Christmas crackers,” John said, hoping Sherlock heard the sarcasm in his voice. “Wouldn’t it be better if she made them herself? She could fill them with the ingredients for her herbal soothers.”
Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Genius! Pure genius, John. We’ll need mistletoe, too. The standard kind – not the type that keeps buzzing around your head….”
At that, he looked up. The mistletoe was gone.
“Ha! I knew I could outlast it.”
“You did no such thing. As soon as you attacked me and snogged me on the floor, it took off.”
“I don’t recall attacking you. You were staring at my cheekbones. I moistened my lips with my tongue, and you stepped forward and grabbed my arm then wrestled me to the floor.”
“Boys – get to work decorating that tree before Hagrid comes in with the next one,” instructed Minerva, pointing them to the twelve-foot monster.
“We’d work faster with Christmas music,” John said some time later as he floated a green orb to the top of the tree.
“Please – John.” Sherlock shuddered. “Christmas music is insipid. Ladies dancing and drummers drumming and round yon virgin and hark hark hark.”
John hid a grin, and Sherlock pointed his wand at the tree and said “Arboris Glaciem!”
The tree branches turned into icicles and John sighed.
“Would you stop that, please? It’s dangerous to make up spells, Sherlock! If you don’t know the Latin word for snow, then look it up or ask someone. Ice is not snow. Ice is … Jesus, Sherlock – you’ve frozen the fairies!”
The two continued bickering as Minerva pointed her wand at an ancient wireless sitting on the head table. Christmas music instantly filled the air, drowning them out.
Sherlock swiveled his head toward the wireless. “God rest ye merry what?”
John grinned, and began to hum along. It was at times like these, times when Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words, that John liked magic most.
End Part 1