John didn't stick around long enough to hear Sherlock's response, but it was probably something sarcastic and annoying. Greg went to throw the quaffle in one of the goal posts, having the lead on Mycroft, but John swooped in just in time, catching it under one arm and tossing it simply to Mycroft.

"Where's a bludger when you need one?!" Greg called at John's retreating back. John just laughed as Mycroft tossed the quaffle easily into the goal post on the other side, 10-0. John didn't have a real purpose; he just jumped in whenever it felt necessary to make sure Greg didn't win. Soon it was 60-20; he had let two goals slip around him by some tragedy, when Mycroft flew up next to him.

"I appreciate all the help you've been providing, but do you mind if Greg and I dueled it out, you can play winner?" he said in his haughty Head Boy voice. John pretended not to be both crushed and humiliated, but nodded.

"Sure, sorry, I'm cheering for you." He added with a forced smile, shooting away from the game. But he wasn't cheering for Mycroft, not anymore. He sort of hoped he fell off his broom in some sort of freak accident, a nice broken leg just to get him away for a little bit. John was definitely jealous of all the attention Greg gave him, attention that used to be primarily focused on either John or a cute girl sitting next to them. They had been almost conjoined twins, never leaving each other's sides, and now they had some type of operation apparently, and the doctor was Mycroft. Stupid metaphor, but it made the point. He was a good person, but not in John's point of view. Just as he was exiled from the game, Sherlock trudged moodily in, thrusting his wand aggressively at the stands and clearing the snow and water from a seat. He had also brought blue flame in what looked like a jam jar, similar to the magic Mycroft had used so long ago, when he and Greg first got to know each other. Sherlock sat in the middle of the stands, but instead of watching the one on one match he opened a book and lounged on the stands, looking very ticked off with the world. John soared up next to him with a smile, doing a quick flip just to show off. Sherlock rolled his eyes and lazily turned the page.

"Has anyone told you that your scowl just lights up the room?" John asked with a laugh. Sherlock didn't reply. "What's wrong Sherlock, really?" he asked, hoping Sherlock would connect more to the emotional side of things less than comical.

"I'm fine, tired." Sherlock shrugged.

"Well I've been kicked out of the game, so if you have any topics you'd like to discuss I'd be perfectly happy to talk." John shrugged.

"Oh yes, would you like to hear about my problems with life?" Sherlock snapped.

"Yes." John shrugged.

"Well sorry." Sherlock sighed, burying his face back into the book. John sighed, having a pretty mean idea, but it would get him entertained and perhaps improve Sherlock's mood.

"Aren't you excited with the game?" John asked.

"No, they're both idiots." Sherlock decided.

"Of course they are." John agreed, looking on the game himself. Greg had just stolen the quaffle from under Mycroft's arm, doing a victory flip as he shot towards the goal post.

"Sherlock come on, cheer up or I'll have to tell you about my day." John sighed.

"I'd rather not."

"Have it your way then." John said with a smile. Sherlock didn't know what that meant, but thankfully John was a skilled spur of the moment type of guy. He grabbed Sherlock's arm, and with a lot of balance and strength heaved him onto the broom behind him. Sherlock screamed, seemingly like he was about to jump off of the broom if John hadn't sped away from the bleachers.

"John, put me down now!" Sherlock screamed.

"Oh shut up, and hold on!" John decided. Sherlock wrapped his arms painfully around John's neck with another blood curling scream.

"And please don't strangle me!" he added. Sherlock didn't seem to get the last message, holding onto John for dear life. Mycroft and Greg had stopped playing to watch as John flew around the pitch, not even that fast, but at every turn, dip, or acceleration Sherlock started screaming once more.

"John I'm not even kidding, I will jump!" Sherlock threatened.

"Go right ahead, but this time I'm not falling after you!" John called back. Both of them knew that he wouldn't jump for his life; his number one fear at the moment was falling off.

"Just relax Sherlock, I won't let you fall!" John assured. But Sherlock's grip didn't loosen around his neck, nor did breathing get any easier.

"JOHN LET ME DOWN!" Sherlock demanded, screeching on the top of his lungs. John slowed to a hovering stop. Sherlock didn't let go, but his breathing was starting to steady out the slightest bit, gasping for breaths so close to John's ear.

"Just calm down Sherlock, you're perfectly safe." John assured.

"No I'm not; I'm fifty feet in the air on a bloody broom!" Sherlock gasped.

"I've been up 200 feet; it's nothing to worry about." John assured. "Shall I go higher?"

"NO!" Sherlock screamed. John could hear Greg's laugh from a little while away.

"Should I go lower?"

"Yes, yes please, this is cruel and unusual punishment." Sherlock agreed. John dropped them two feet, making the two fly ever so slightly up. This set Sherlock over the edge, now he was practically on top of John, holding onto his head and nearly blinding him, all while screaming bloody murder.

"JOHN PLEASE, PLEASE OH MY GOD JUST LET ME DOWN!" he begged, not even sounding playfully scared, it was as if John didn't let him down he would start sobbing. John sighed, finding that his fun was over, and declining altitude ever so slightly. Sherlock, once again, couldn't wait to get to the ground, falling sideways off of the broom and pulling John with him. The landing was soft in the snow, maybe even pleasant, but the fact that a very angry Sherlock was beside him made the fun seem to drain out of everything. A big pile of snow was thrust into John's face, making him temporally blind and slightly suffocated, but he knew that was the least of his problems. Sherlock, well, he guessed it was Sherlock, was now punching him and stuffing more snow at him. But John just laughed, spitting the snow out of his mouth so he could breath, but Sherlock's anger was more like an angry kitten pretending to be a tiger. His hands were pinned to the ground to prevent him from actually clearing the snow out of his eyes and nose, but a big smile was on his face.

"YOU BLOODY IDIOT, YOU COULD'VE KILLED ME!" Sherlock was screaming, as if John hadn't had the situation under control. Finally he was able to blink the snow out of his eyes, seeing Sherlock's face hovering very closely to his, the green eyes wide with both fear and anger.

"But I didn't, remember that." John pointed out with a sarcastic smile. Sherlock seemed to lose his train of thought and anger, their eye contact holding for a long moment. John didn't mind though, it would only take one bold move to have a kiss right then and there, but he knew Sherlock would never imagine something like that, not now, in front of both Greg and Mycroft. It felt like an eternity where they just stared at each other, reading the contents of the other's soul just through the depth and lines of the pupils.

"You're a tyrant." Sherlock decided, rolling back onto the white, fluffy ground and looking up to the sky.

"You have to admit it makes you feel powerful right? Like good luck catching me Umbridge." John pointed out.

"It makes me feel like I'm giving Umbridge the victory of me falling to my death. Then no one would have to deal with me." Sherlock pointed out.

"Don't talk like that, if you died the whole school would mourn."

"I guess it depends how I go. If I blow myself up then it would be a run on joke for the rest of the school year, that is if Dumbledore chooses to make it public. If I'm killed by someone or something I'd be a hero, but if I fall from a broom we'd both be tormented even after death." Sherlock guessed, as if he had put thought in this before.

"I guess it's a good thing you're not going anywhere then." John decided.

"You'd be surprised how cruel life can be to a person. One minute you're breathing, the next moment your heart stops, and no one has control over it."

"But I say you're not going anywhere, and right now you're not." John decided, rolling his head over to look at Sherlock. The very sight of him at the moment made John struggle to breathe normally, without looking like too much of a love sick creep. His hair was covered in snow; his face pale against the white that he looked, once again, angelic, and the contrast of the black of his robes and hair in the surrounding was enough to make John's heart pretty much stop. God, if only there weren't two sort of siblings flying above them. But John knew they were both his and Sherlock's excuse for not tearing at each other. We can't kiss, Mycroft is there. If he wasn't there it would be the cold or something, maybe the fact that anyone could walk into the pitch whenever they want, maybe Umbridge has a telescope or can turn herself into a beetle. There would always be something.

"20-10, come on Greg!" Mycroft called from above, which meant the two of them had been stopped, watching John and Sherlock talk to each other. Great, the last thing Greg needed was more evidence that John was hopelessly in love with Sherlock. John wasn't hopelessly in love; he was hopelessly in hope, if that makes any sense. Sure, he liked Sherlock, a lot more than anyone would've guessed, but it wasn't the fact that he had so much love between them, it was too much what if's and hope. What if this happened, what if they kissed right here, maybe maybe maybe. Hope was the only thing stronger than fear, according to one of Umbridge's ancestors probably, and maybe that's why John wasn't terrified of the secret powers flowing in Sherlock's veins. There was the sound of the game commencing above them, the quaffle being thrown, brooms accelerating, Mycroft yelling with annoyance as Greg probably scored or blocked or stole. But John wasn't really focused on that; he was gazing at Sherlock, careless to anyone who wanted to pick on his about it. They would just be jealous that John had the luxury of watching him; it was a drug that was virtually free when others were jinxed for it. Sherlock was the definition of beauty, and this was the perfect background to demonstrate that. Unfortunately though, Sherlock sat up, brushing the snow off of himself and looking down at John with a frown.

"You deserved it." he decided. John just smiled at him, hoping to get more than a scowl in return, but Sherlock just turned away and walked back to the bleachers. John sighed, getting to his feet as well and having a much harder time shaking off the snow from himself. Sherlock was very thorough in stuffing snow in his hat and even scarf, so he was suffering from the inside out. John walked over to where his broom laid, a little bit snowy but overall okay to fly. Instead of hopping on though, since Mycroft and Greg's game still wasn't over, he walked to the bleachers, stepping in the melted prints Sherlock had left behind. There was victorious screech and Greg did a victory flip and Mycroft went diving after the falling quaffle. John just sighed, thinking that this had been an invitation to play quidditch but instead he was just being cheated. He walked up the stairs up to where Sherlock was sitting, the blue flame looking very inviting right now. Sherlock eyed him over the book, as if suspicious that he would take him on another joy ride.

"Can I sit?" John asked, more of a demand than a question.

"Depends I suppose." Sherlock sighed.

"On what?"

"If you're going to talk or not."

"I won't talk." John groaned, sitting down next to Sherlock and trying to treasure the heat from the flames as much as Sherlock was.

"I'm freezing." John decided. Sherlock just sighed, there he goes again, breaking his promise not to talk, but John really didn't care about talking. It's not like Sherlock would kick him out. John rubbed his hands together as fast as he could, trying to warm them up because now, even with two gloves, they felt like someone had stuck them in water and froze them for a while. They were so cold he doubted he could fly even if he wanted to. Mycroft went soaring by, quaffle in hand as Greg chased him, his laughter evident even from the stands.

"They seem to really fancy each other." John decided.

"Yes, I suppose they do." Sherlock sighed, obviously giving up on the silent treatment.

"It's a good thing though; it's great to see Greg smiling as much as he is now." John said.

"Oh don't give me that. I know you dislike not being the center of attention. Maybe he smiles, but not at you." Sherlock pointed out.

"Thank you Sherlock, for all your support." John sighed.

"Just saying."

"I thought we were supposed to be silent."

"You were the one that broke that rule." Sherlock defended. John huddled into a ball, pulling his knees to his chest and frowning slightly. Sherlock had a point, as usual, a very annoying point but true all the same. Sherlock was looking at the book but his eyes weren't moving, so he was just staring blankly for some reason. Not abnormal though, considering he was Sherlock. John sighed again, wondering if it would be worth it to just go back inside when he remembered the snitch in his pocket.

"Hey, do you want to throw the snitch for me?" he asked excitedly.

"Not really." Sherlock admitted. John sighed, actually thinking he found something to do with this wasted time.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, yes." Sherlock agreed. That didn't really help John's mood.