John could barely believe it was already his fifth year. Some of the people he felt like he'd met just yesterday, and though he did know many spells, there was still a lifetime's worth to be discovered. He watched jovially as the first years came flooding in, stumbling over one another as they stared at the roof in awe. The sorting was always a highlight, he thought. The raw happiness on the kids' faces as their house was called warmed something in his heart, and everyone, if you disregard Harry Potter, was usually met with utmost enthusiasm from their house members. John looked over towards the Gryffindor curiously, unsurprised to see the fourth-year golden boy being hounded with attention.

He himself was in Hufflepuff. And it was amazing, really. He had a few mates in his house who he got along quite well with, the common room was always warm, and Professor Sprout was one of the more lenient head of houses. A study group had also been organized to accommodate students and there were a few girls he thought he might fancy taking to the newly announced Yule Ball.

"Hey, I heard the greasy git's got an apprentice this year." one housemate, Michael recounted excitedly during the Opening Feast.

Molly Hooper, a quiet girl the year below John, spoke up softly. "An apprentice? I didn't know Hogwarts allowed them."

"Surely Dumbledore will announce them with the rest of the staff."

But John wasn't quite sure. Scanning the head table, John could only pinpoint a few new faces, and none of them seemed young enough to be starting an apprenticeship. As the night gradually came to an end, it was concluded that no, Dumbledore was not introducing a new apprentice, and John briefly wondered if they ever existed at all. Rumours and gossip spread fast at Hogwarts, and this piece of information seemed to be no exception.

By the time tomorrow had arrived, John had forgotten all about the supposed apprentice until he walked into Potions class that morning. He saw him immediately. Tall, lanky, curly dark hair. In a way, his posture and dissecting stare almost reminded John of Snape, and he considered the possibility of them being related. But no. Snape having a family was a preposterous thought in itself, let alone being related to someone so oddly attractive. Embarrassed, John diverted his gaze and hurried to his desk, saving a seat for Mike Stamford – a short and stubby Ravenclaw who John had taking a liking to from their very first week at Hogwarts. It also helped that he was interested in a similar career path to John. He needed good grades for his OWLs that year to become a healer, and unfortunately for John, Potions was one of his prerequisites. Now Mike Stamford wasn't a Potions prodigy by any means, but he could at least mix together the required ingredients correctly without it ending in a hazardous disaster.

The rest of the class filed in, and as soon as everyone was seated and talking animatedly among each other, a door positioned at the front of the classroom burst open. Snape, as though it were tradition, stalked out with robes billowing behind him, and John had to suppress a gulp of fear at the sight. It wasn't necessarily as though he was afraid of Snape. He had never actually done anything to harm the class, after all. Rather, the man was just intimidating, and in the end, it was him who would make or break John's potential future. So, he listened to Snape's traditional introduction with unwavering eyes and a stiff back, drinking in every word. It was only when he began to introduce the new apprentice that John's attention was diverted. He took in the boy's appearance once again. He didn't appear to be much older than John, if older at all. In fact, he seemed particularly young, and John wondered why he wasn't a student at Hogwarts like the rest of them. Either he was a twenty-year-old who looked fifteen, or he was a child genius who had graduated some years ago and had now returned to become a Potions master. John was putting his money on the latter.

"As many of you might have already noticed – though sometimes I do doubt your dismal observation skills – we have a new apprentice who will be accompanying us for the school year's remainder." Snape drawled, eyes flickering to the young man by his side.

The boy stepped forward, arms locked behind his back. He held himself with an air of dignity and his posh voice resonated throughout the room. "The name is Sherlock Holmes. I… look forward to any future correspondence."

It was a little awkward and John cracked a grin. He was unprepared for the pair of piercing blue – no, green? – eyes which suddenly locked with his, and John suppressed a gulp. His grin faded to an unsure half-smile. But then Sherlock's gaze was elsewhere and John felt something clench uncomfortably in his stomach. The smile hadn't been returned and the look in Sherlock's eyes was haunting to say the least. Not that John blamed him, really. It was the boy's first day here, and he likely wasn't given the same lenience as the other students. John suppressed a shiver at the thought of Snape being his mentor. He was bad enough as a professor for two periods a week. He didn't even want to imagine what it would be like to have him breathing down your neck at all hours, day after day.

With the ingredients and method written on the board, the students were then instructed to begin on their Draught of Peace, and from then, the lesson flew by like any other. Before John knew it, he and Mike were handing their potion up for examination and shuffling out of the classroom in a hurry to reach their next class in time. McGonogall was not a woman to be messed with, after all, and John didn't particularly fancy a detention on the first day back at school.

That night, as was tradition, the fifth-year Hufflepuff boys sat in the common room drinking Butterbeer and eating Chocolate Frogs. John was sure he was going to be sick, but tradition was tradition, and he laughed along with the rest of the boys as they recounted the day's happenings.

"Any of you lads gonna enter the Triwizard Tournament, then?" asked James excitedly, giving John an enthusiastic nudge.

John grinned and took a sip of his Butterbeer. "Dumbledore isn't a bloody fool, y'know. We couldn't enter even if we wanted to."

Michael hummed in agreement. "A few blokes from Gryffindor tried it last night, I heard. Didn't work."

"You lot are party poopers."

John shrugged. "Just don't fancy myself being thrown out of the Great Hall, thanks. Go ahead, if you want. None of us are stopping you."

James rolled his eyes. "None of your sass now, Johnny. Just a friendly suggestion."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, you lot. Enough of that shit. How about the new apprentice, then, aye? Looks like a right twat." chortled Tod, currently stuffing his mouth with his fifth Chocolate Frog of the night.

Michael laughed loudly, a sound akin to a snort escaping his lips. "Twat? I think fairy is a bit more accurate, innit?"

Something churned in John's stomach. Suddenly, that second Chocolate Frog didn't look so appetizing and he smiled awkwardly at the other boys as they broke down cackling.

"Watch out, Snapey boy!" choked out James between laughs.

John wanted to tell them off. Was going to tell them off, really. But then his throat was clenching up with anxiety and all sound failed to escape. He simply watched as his housemates chuckled with glee at the expense of the apprentice, and suddenly, John didn't want to be there anymore. He stood up awkwardly, brushing the crumbs off his jeans. The boys looked up at him curiously.

"Where you going, Johnny?" asked James with a frown. "It's barely nine."

He balled his hands into fists nervously. "Yeah, right, um… Just a little tired, lads. Don't think this chocolate sits well with me. Sorry to be a let down."

"You owe us, hey John. But sleep well, mate." spoke Michael, giving him a friendly slap on the calf as he walked off.

Collapsing onto his bed, John let out a deep sigh of relief. After some deep thinking, the holidays had been enlightening, and well… Basically he wasn't as straight as he had initially thought. A few months ago, that conversation wouldn't have phased him in the slightest. But now, it was suddenly as though he didn't fit anymore. His housemates were behind a glass wall he just couldn't break and his voice no longer worked. He rubbed a hand over his face worriedly. He'd seen what Harry had to put up with at school and at home. He didn't much fancy the same for himself. Retrieving his homework from his bag, John hopped onto his bed before closing the curtains around himself. He wasn't in fact tired yet, and figured he may as well use his time wisely before the rest of the boys came up.

Three weeks into classes was when the rumour began. John wasn't certain where, and how, it began, but as soon as it was out in the open, the whole school was immediately on board.

"He's a squib, haven't you heard?"

"Yeah, apparently he cleaned everything up with his bare hands!"

"We don't need his filthy kind around here. Dumbledore's off his head."

"I heard he's related to that head boy… Mycroft!"

Every conversation in the Great Hall during breakfast was inherently the same, and by the time first period rolled around, John already possessed a throbbing headache. Apparently the new apprentice – Sherlock – was a squib. John didn't know how he felt about that. He hadn't met any other squibs before, and he didn't really harbour any prejudices regarding the matter. If his classmate's reactions were anything to be going off though, Sherlock was now equivalent to the dirt on the bottom of their shoes.

John wasn't quite sure about that. So far, the boy seemed more than adept at Potions, and made them with an almost Snape-like efficiency. What was even more inspiring, perhaps, was the multiple compliments John had heard Snape address Sherlock with. Not even the Slytherins were subject to such acclaim. Even if Sherlock couldn't do magic, he clearly made up for it with his skill in other areas, and for that, he retained John's respect.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though John was one of the select few with that mindset.

As soon as the students began filing in for Potions that morning, Sherlock was immediately victim to an onslaught of verbal abuse.

"Oi, Sherly! Heard you were having trouble with some charms recently."

This remark was met with a bout of chuckles, and John watched worriedly as Sherlock's head shot up to stare at the student with wide eyes.

"Yeah, sorry, hon." A Ravenclaw girl pouted with fake sympathy. "Secret's out." She shrugged.

John was fuming. After observing Sherlock's terrified face, John opened his mouth to give those other students a piece of his mind. His efforts were unnecessary, however, because in that moment, a sharp, low voice emitted from the corner of the room. Everybody's blood ran cold.

"One more word from your insolent mouths and this whole class will be serving detention with me for the year's remainder." Snape began, stalking out from the shadows and glaring down his nose at the class with contempt. With the class frozen, the professor then ordered the class to begin with their potions, subjecting them to complete silence for the lesson's remainder.

John had never been more grateful for Snape's existence. As he mixed his potion carefully – three clockwise stirs followed by two anti-clockwise – John's gaze kept lifting to study Sherlock's demeanour. It had calmed considerably since Snape's arrival, but John could still observe a hint of anxiety in the way the boy held himself. He wanted to say something. Comfort Sherlock somehow. But that was stupid. The two didn't know each other. John didn't owe Sherlock anything. And the rest of the class would riot if they saw John engaging with the squib. So he remained silent and simply continued on with his potion, shooting Sherlock concerned glances every few moments. If Mike had noticed anything, he didn't speak up. The two finished in good time, and John proceeded to clean their workspace as Mike wrote their names on the vial and took it up for perusal.

With that, yet another day passed with John holding his breath.

The remarks and bullying didn't stop there, either. Each Potions lesson, before Snape made his grand entrance, the students would try and get as many slurs in as possible. And every time, without failure, Sherlock met them with silence, simply staring with a curious glisten in his eyes. John heard people talking about the apprentice outside of Potions, too, at every opportunity possible. Apparently, one girl from Slytherin had even gone to Dumbledore to complain. John didn't see the point. Surely by now they were used to Dumbledore making odd decisions that were non-negotiable. But alas, other than the much anticipated Triwizard Tournament, there wasn't much to talk about, so John allowed to comments to filter in one ear and out the other.

Well, up until the beginning of October. That was when things began to change.

Their Potions lesson for the day had just come to a close, with Snape clearing his things and sweeping out the door much hastier than usual. That's when they'd taken their opportunity to strike. Mike had already left for Transfiguration, leaving John loitering behind to clean his mess and write some last minute notes from the chalkboard. He was almost finished, too, before a loud slam knocked him from his thoughts and prompted his eyes to shoot up towards the source of the sound.

John's grip on his pen tightened instinctively. Sherlock, who was similarly packing away his things, had been cornered, two Ravenclaws and one Hufflepuff boy lanking each side. John wasn't quite certain if they realised he was still there.

"Hey, freak."

John recognised the speaker as Sally Donovan. He had known she was a tough one – she was often confused for a Gryffindor, after all – but hadn't pinned her as a bully.

Since the first introduction, John hadn't actually heard Sherlock speak, so it came as quite the shock when he immediately opened his mouth to reply.

"Donovan." he nodded curtly.

John watched the interaction carefully, slowly filing his parchment away to appear occupied.

"When are you leaving, then?"

Sherlock quirked a brow. "Sorry?"

"Y'know… when are you going back to the filthy muggle streets where you belong? Surely you've realised by now that you don't belong. You're a squibbish freak, Holmes."

John wasn't quite sure he'd ever heard the word 'freak' being used with such venom, and its direction at Sherlock made his blood boil for no reason in particular.

Sherlock hummed indignantly. "That's rich, considering your mother's a muggle. I wonder what she'd have to say about your filthy opinion of her."

"How the hell did he know about your mum?" spoke the Ravenclaw boy, fixing a glare onto Sherlock.

Sally shrugged, embarrassed. "I don't fucking know, Roger. Shut up."

"Not hard to tell, considering you have a pen protruding from your left pocket and your robes are donning a magical family crest which reads your father's surname. Your father's obviously not a muggle, then, but why else would you have a muggle pen? Simple – you mother's a muggle and you're a half-blood. Not rocket science, Roger." Sherlock offered the group an awkward half-smile that more closely resembled a grimace, and that was as far as the verbal exchange went. Suddenly, Sally Donovan was shoving Sherlock's papers and books off the bench in a huff whilst the Ravenclaw boy, Roger, grabbed Sherlock by the robes and landed a punch directly by his left cheek.

John's heartbeat immediately picked up, and his wand was out in a flash. "Petrificus Totalus!" he yelled, instantly causing all three perpetrators to become rigid and immobile, collapsing to the floor unceremoniously. With them out the way, John maneuvered around his desk to check on Sherlock, lifting his gaze to be met with stunned eyes.

"Are you alright? Honestly, I should've stepped in sooner, but I didn't know if they were actually going to do anything and well, I don't know… Are you alright?"

Sherlock nodded the affirmative, wide eyes still locked on John. "What you did just then… with the um, spell… that was good. Yes, quite good."

John's lips quirked into a small smile. "No, no, it was um, my pleasure, I suppose. Here, did you need me to..." John awkwardly gestured to the already forming bruise on Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock's hands subconsciously lifted to poke at his skin. "I mean, if it helps with your healer endeavours, go ahead."

John paused in his tracks. "Sorry… How'd you know about that? Me wanting to be a healer?"

"Hm? Oh, right..." Sherlock blushed awkwardly. "Well, first of all, your immediate reaction to me getting hurt was a dead giveaway. And also I, er, often help Professor Snape with the potion grading and you seem to excel at the ones with healing properties."

Now it was John's turn to blush. "You've marked some of my potions? Well that's awkward."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, not awkward at all. I mean, they're quite good, really. Most of them."

"Only most?"

"Unfortunately." Sherlock grinned slyly.

John huffed a laugh, taking that moment in the conversation to mutter a quiet healing spell. Sherlock watched with amazement as a soft light emitted from John's wand.

"That was brilliant, by the way." John interrupted softly.

"Sorry?"

"With how you knew that Donovan was a half-blood, and how I want to be a healer."

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised by that remark. His eyes shone with something raw and joyous. "You really think so?"

"Yes, of course it was brilliant. Extraordinary."

A silence overcame them for a few moments at that, as though Sherlock needed a minute to collect himself. John busied himself by tidying the papers which Sally had so unkindly pushed from the bench.

"You know," Sherlock began hesitantly. "You're the first person here, other than the staff, of course, to actually hold a civilised conversation with me."

"Oh?" John lifted his head. Something akin to sadness suddenly overcame him as he regarded Sherlock. "Well, lucky me. You're quite interesting."

"Do you not care?"

"What?"

"That I'm a squib, I mean. The rumours are true, in case you hadn't noticed." Sherlock held himself with shame, as though he was anticipating a rejection at the newly revealed not-so-secret.

John snorted. "Are you kidding me? Of course not. In case all those other idiots haven't already noticed, you're a bloody Potions genius, and your lack of magic doesn't justify them treating you like dirt."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, John. Sincerely."

John finished scooping together the rest of Sherlock's belongings and carefully stacked them on the bench once more. "You don't have to thank me." he grinned.

"Perhaps not," another voice spoke, and as though their privacy was being severely violated, both John and Sherlock's eyes darted to the door. "But I do have to ask you, Watson, why on earth are you currently surrounded by three immobilised students and missing from Transfiguration class? Skipping class to abuse your fellow students?"

John swallowed thickly, shaking his head. "No… No, of course not, Professor Snape. I just, um… was writing some last minute notes and er, these guys were talking to Sherlock and er..."

"He was helping me, Professor. Nothing of deep concern."

Snape regarded Sherlock with an expression that read, 'We're talking about this later.'

"If you say so, Holmes. Watson: go to class."

John nodded sharply. "I'll head there right now, sir." With one last glance in Sherlock's direction, John hurried towards the classroom's exit, scooping up his own belongings on the way out. If Snape hadn't believed their story, he never let on.

After what he now labelled, 'The Meeting', John spent the remainder of the day wondering when, and if, he'd be able to speak to Sherlock again. Apparently, it was to be sooner than anticipated.