It was subtle, but from that fateful day, John began to notice Sherlock dropping him helpful hints and tips during Potions class. The assistance was barely noticeable, really. A few times he had handed John the exact ingredients needed without a word, allowing an extra five valuable minutes on the potion itself. He'd corrected John's stirring direction with a flick of the head on two occasions, and once, he'd even whispered that John would have much better results if he opted to squash his ingredients as opposed to slicing them. They were small, but the tips were undoubtedly helpful and both Mike and he had noticed a considerable difference regarding their potion outcome.

John had been wanting to engage Sherlock in another conversation again, but with hectic schedules and Snape always rushing Sherlock around, it was difficult to get a word in. So alas, weeks passed with nothing except the dull routine of Hogwarts life. Enthusiasm was picking up again in the castle with the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students impending arrival, and even John found himself being carried away by the excitement of it all. The boys in the dorm had begun taking bets on who they suspected the Hogwarts champion would be, and so far, the nominees had been narrowed down to three candidates: Cedric Diggory, Greg Lestrade and Angelina Johnson. Most of them, including John, had their money on Cedric, though it may have been the house-bias talking. Michael defended that Angelina had a great chance, but the rouge on his cheeks indicated that his thoughts were elsewhere.

Eventually, their arrival did in fact come, and John watched with the rest of the Hogwarts cohort in awe as a large carriage appeared from the stars, followed shortly by the shocking emergence of an underwater ship. The students cheered in amazement, and John's smile was so wide he thought his cheeks might have burst. Eyes bright and morale even brighter, cheers filled the air. It was all quite overwhelming, really. Nothing this important had happened at Hogwarts since John's arrival, and part of him wished he could play a larger part in it all. After their entrance ceremony, it was announced that the champions' names would be called at the Halloween Feast the following day, and everyone rushed off to their common rooms with no intention of sleep in their minds.

Lying in bed, John tried thinking about Hogwarts' new additions, but alas, his mind kept drifting back to a certain Potions apprentice. He wondered if Sherlock would be at the feast tomorrow. So far, he hadn't made any public appearances, but tomorrow was the Halloween Feast. Surely he ought to be there. After all, it was quite potentially, the most important day in Hogwarts' history. Besides, Snape would surely drag him along, right? With this hope in mind, John finally succumbed to sleep, breaths even. Little did he know, this castle contentment was not to last for long.

"Harry Potter!"

Nobody could believe their ears. Harry Potter, chosen as champion? Cedric had already been selected for Hogwarts, and rightfully so. The Great Hall was in absolute uproar, including the commonly calm Dumbledore, and the students watched with raised brows as the staff raced to follow Harry into a room separate from the remaining students.

"What the bloody hell was that all about?" scowled James. "Cedric's our champion, not that cheating git!"

John diverted his gaze. He was equally as confused as the rest, but didn't fancy laying all the blame on Potter. He seemed to be the most shocked of them all – almost as though he didn't want to enter the tournament or had never entered to begin with. Looking around, John's eyes immediately fell to a figure by the head table who appeared to be staring right at him. Squinting his eyes, John's face erupted with joy upon realisation. He slipped out of his seat hurriedly, ignoring Michael's cries of protest.

"Hey there." he grinned, smiling up at Sherlock. "Bit of drama for your first appearance here, aye?"

"Just a tad." Sherlock quirked a small smile. "Professor Snape made me attend."

"I figured he would."

Sherlock glanced around the room for a few moments, eyes narrowed. "Why is it that everyone's so surprised? His name was called out like everyone else's."

John blinked. "You know who that is, right?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but there was a sort of fondness behind it. "Obviously, John. I'm a squib, not a muggle off the street. But what makes Harry Potter's name different from the others in this case?"

"Ah, that's probably because he's, what? Fourteen. Dumbledore made an age line so that it was impossible for anyone under seventeen to enter the tournament."

"Oh." Sherlock nodded slowly. "Well, that is quite odd then, I suppose. Fancy a walk?"

Caught off guard at the sudden change of topic, John gaped.

Sherlock coughed. "Only a suggestion."

"No, um, no… Of course. A walk sounds good."

"Perfect. Come on, then."

With that, John was following Sherlock through the rioting crowds and out of the Great Hall, bashfully ignoring the looks his housemates were casting him. Possessing much shorter legs than Sherlock, John struggled to keep up, maintaining an awkward hop-step kind of stroll. "Where are we going?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked back, slowing suddenly at the realisation that John was lagging behind. "Just thought we'd walk around the grounds. Sorry for the rush, I hate crowds like that."

John shrugged with understanding and the two of them matched pace, Sherlock shoving his hands in the deep pockets of his coat. It was silent, mostly, but John felt calmed by the other boy's presence at his side. Reaching the Black Lake, Sherlock paused, eyes staring into its expansive depths. John looked up at him curiously, lips parting in wonder at the way the moonlight reflected against his pale skin.

"Here will do," Sherlock spoke suddenly, and John looked away abruptly in embarrassment.

"Sorry… will do for what?"

Sherlock grinned, sitting down and allowing his back to fall against the grass below. "Stargazing, of course."

John huffed a breath of laughter at the oddity of it all, but showed no hesitation in following Sherlock and lying down beside him. "Wouldn't have taken you for an astronomer."

"Oh, no. That stuff's all rubbish. Doesn't mean I can't appreciate the beauty of it, though." With that, his head turned to face John, lips tilting in mirth.

John's breath caught in his throat. Swallowing thickly, John looked away, staring at the stars above. "How old are you, by the way? You don't look any older than me."

"I'm sixteen."

"Oh."

"Why, how old are you?"

"Fifteen."

Sherlock snorted. "Guess your deduction skills are a little weak, then. One year older."

"Shut up." John smiled. "Pretty amazing that you're already an apprentice. How did that come about?"

"Well, um, I grew up in a magical household, as you know… And after my letter never arrived," Sherlock paused at this, as though he were ashamed. "I was devastated, really. I think my parents were holding onto the hope that I was a late bloomer. But anyway, after spending a year in a slump, my brother suggested I try making some potions. It's different from normal magic because technically, a wand isn't required. Just ingredients and a cauldron. And well, it was amazing. I've always had an affinity for chemistry and science, so Potions came as second nature to me. And after a few years of stealing my brother's school books and my parents library supply of recipes, Mycroft offered to talk to Professor Snape on my behalf. Guess his pompous ass is good for something."

John listened in wonderment. "So I guess you're some type of Potions genius then, huh? That's amazing."

If Sherlock's ears had burned red at the compliment, John opted to remain silent.

"Genius, no, not quite. That title is reserved for someone like Professor Snape."

"I think you're the only person at this school who actually likes him."

Sherlock shrugged. "I mean, he's a bit of a git to the Gryffindors, yeah, but… He's helped me a lot. He's alright once you actually have a normal conversation with him."

"Huh." John found that hard to believe, but decided to take Sherlock's word for it.

A comfortable silence encompassed them in that moment, and John was perfectly content to just lie beside Sherlock and listen to their synchronised breathing. He couldn't quite recall when he'd last been this calm, and revelled in Sherlock's presence. Very briefly, the thought of taking Sherlock's hand in his crossed John's mind, but he hurriedly stowed it away and berated himself internally.

Eventually, the outside chill began to worsen, and John found himself shivering unconsciously.

"C'mon, then. Let's get you back inside." John looked over to see that Sherlock was already standing up and shimmying his coat off. He held it out in offering. "Here, take this. I wonder what time it is."

Taking the coat with wide eyes, John cast a brief Tempus. "Sweet Merlin, it's already past 10:00!" he exclaimed, worry overcoming his features.

"Don't worry, hurry, put it on."

John did as asked, feeling quite stupid with the sleeves reaching past his fingers. Sherlock stared at John for a brief moment, something akin to affection swimming in his eyes. "Here," he mumbled quietly, moving closer to John so that he could flip the collar up.

John held his breath.

"You don't quite look like me, but it'll do."

John cracked a grin. "That was your genius plan? To disguise me as you so I don't get caught after curfew?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course not, John. It's to keep you warm, obviously. Now come on, before I catch hypothermia."

With that, he was off, striding back towards the castle at a quick pace. John took a moment to process what had just occurred. Sherlock had just given him his coat. To keep him warm.

Sherlock had just given him his coat to keep John warm.

Biting his lip at the thought, John let out a quiet squeal of joy before racing off after Sherlock, short legs shuffling through the grass in an attempt to keep up.

Thankfully, he made it back to the Hufflepuff common room without incident that night, Sherlock's coat still wrapped snugly around his shoulders. And if he happened to fall asleep with it still by his side, well… Sherlock didn't have to know.

Over the next few days and weeks, Sherlock and John made sure to meet by the Black Lake on frequent occasion. Their conversation topics were vast, and John savoured each and every one of them. He learnt more of Sherlock's childhood and his family dog, Redbeard, while Sherlock deduced that John was a half-blood, had an older sister Harry and liked to play Quidditch.

"You could play Quidditch if you wanted, right? It's just a flying broomstick – no spells needed."

Sherlock frowned in thought. "I don't know, actually. Never tried."

"You've never ridden a broomstick?!"

"No, Mycroft thinks they're brutish and since I never showed an interest in Quidditch my parents never bought me one."

"That's insane. You can ride mine if you want!"

Sherlock blinked. "Sure, okay."

John grinned widely.

Soon enough, John began skipping lunch and bringing food down from the kitchens so he and Sherlock could spend more time together.

"Does Mad-Eye Moody seem a bit… I don't know… off to you?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Is that the eye guy?"

"Duh."

"Oh, right. Then yeah, definitely. Haven't trusted him from the beginning."

John nodded. "I can't put my finger on it but he just gives me a weird feeling. He teaches us some really fucked up spells, too."

This sparked Sherlock's full attention. "Like what?"

"The Unforgivables."

"What?! The Killing Curse?"

John nodded, solemn. "All three of them. On a helpless spider."

Sherlock frowned, deep in thought. "He's always drinking from that vial, too. Wonder what it is."

John sighed. "No idea… Just gives me the creeps."

On one of these usual days, as John was making his way down to the lake, he was intercepted by an out-of-breath Sherlock. His cheeks were red and his eyes were sparkling with an unspeakable excitement. "John!" he exclaimed. "You have to check this out!"

And with that, before John could even utter a word, Sherlock had grasped John's hand tightly and was dragging him back towards the castle. Their legs moved quickly up the stairs, ignoring the few passersby who gave them odd looks. "Sherlock," John puffed, "where on earth are we going?"

"No time for questions, John. It's amazing, you'll see!"

Seven flights of stairs later, John felt as though he was about to collapse, but Sherlock still appeared as excitable as ever. "You can get a drink in a second, just wait. Now… see that wall there?"

John looked. A blank wall. "...Yes."

"Okay! Now, with this exact thought in mind, walk past the wall three times: 'I wish for a room to relax.'"

"Sherlock, what the hell is this about?"

Sherlock was bouncing on his toes by this point. "Don't worry about that and just trust me, John. Do as I say."

John exhaled heavily. "Okay, okay, fine. Here goes."

'I wish for a room to relax.'

'I wish for a room to relax.'

'I wish for a room to relax.'

"Okay, done. Now what was the purpose of –"

"Look, John!"

John turned his head to stare at the wall. And felt his jaw drop to the floor. In place of the blank wall, a huge door had suddenly appeared which John was 100% certain was not there before. "What the..."

Sherlock jumped – jumped – in excitement, hurrying towards the door. "Quickly now, no one can see us!"

Sherlock opened the door and John followed behind loyally, risking a glance behind to make sure no one was trailing them. Once inside, the door closed behind them, and John turned his head to gauge his surroundings.

"Mother of Merlin."

Before them was a sizeable room with an appearance similar to that of his common room. A few armchairs were placed facing each other on one side of the room, a large fireplace accompanying the area. Behind these chairs stood a large bookshelf filled to the brim with reading resources and John could practically feel Sherlock's brain beside him whirring with anticipation. Finally, to the left of the room sat a large sofa, a round coffee table positioned before it stacked with a kettle and an assortment of tea. This area of the room was illuminated by a large antique lamp, and John felt himself stumbling at the sight of it all.

"It's perfect." muttered Sherlock.

John nodded, speechless. He turned to face Sherlock. "How on earth did you discover this?"

"It was by accident, really. I was up here pacing because I'd spilled some really valuable ingredients of Professor Snape's and well… I just kept wishing that I could find some more somewhere. The door appeared out of the blue, and when I looked inside, well… It was a giant Potions lab filled to the brim with ingredients. Apparently, it gives you whatever you wish for."

John simply shook his head in disbelief. "You brilliant, brilliant man."

"I'm only sixteen, John." Sherlock defended, but John knew for a fact that he was blushing at the compliment.

"Doesn't make it any less true."

"Whatever." Sherlock grinned. "Tea?"

"Merlin, yes."

As Sherlock moved towards the sofa to make them some tea, John hurried towards the armchairs. Collapsing on the farthest one, he made a satisfied sound. "This is so soft, Sherlock. You have to come sit here once you're done."

"I want to check out the books, first."

"Of course you do, you nerd." John winked, splaying out on his armchair and smiling at Sherlock fondly. "My favourite nerd."

Sherlock failed to hide his smile. "Shut up." he mumbled, happiness lacing his baritone voice.

John chuckled loudly.

He could get used to this. Boy, could he get used to this.

It was safe to say that Potions was much different now. It had become a kind of common knowledge that John Watson was now friends with the squib apprentice, so the two didn't hesitate in talking during class. Sherlock's helpful hints had also increased phenomenally, the two of them bashfully ignoring Snape's raised brows at their continuous interaction during class time. Mike, on the other hand, didn't seem at all surprised by the change. Rather, he often joined in on their conversations and regarded them with an eerily knowing smile. John had no clue what that was all about.

Gossip was still going crazy about Harry Potter, and John was vaguely aware that many of the students had even gone so far as to wear 'Potter Stinks' and 'Support Cedric Diggory' badges in spite. It seemed that with his absorption in Sherlock, John had avoided a large phase of the school year and with that, his connection with his housemates. John had expressed this to Sherlock during one of their (now daily) meet ups in the Room of Requirement.

"You're my best friend." he had spoken quietly into the silence. It was a random thought, but, John concluded with clarity, a very true one.

"I'm sorry?"

"You. You're my best friend."

Sherlock looked stunned. "Me? John Watson's best friend? What… What about those Hufflepuff boys? Jamie?"

John snorted. "You mean James? And definitely not. Nope, it's you, alright. You're my best friend."

"Wow."

Huffing a laugh, John nodded. "Yep."

"Well..." Sherlock spoke, looking up at John with pink cheeks. "If it makes any difference, you're my best friend, too."

"Yeah." John had mumbled, blissfully content. "It makes a difference. Thanks."

"Anytime."

Unfortunately, that very same night, as John lay in his dormitory bed willing sleep to take him, this blissful contentedness was to be rudely interrupted. Abruptly, his curtains were pulled back to reveal his housemates standing on the other side, firm expressions on their faces. "What the hell?" John muttered, squinting at the intrusion of light.

"So..." started Michael. "You a fairy, then?"

John sat up, stunned. "I'm sorry? Hi?"

"Don't act daft, John. Are you seriously," James exaggerated a shudder, "shagging that dirty squib?"

Heart rate increasing exponentially, John sputtered. "What the fuck are you all on about? Interrupting my sleep for this bloody nonsense."

"We ain't stupid, y'know. Spending every second of the day with him, running off to Merlin knows where, wearing his bloody clothes. I saw ya, y'know… After the Halloween Feast. Wearing his coat. You've been ditching everyone since. Haven't held a proper conversation with you in weeks, Johnny."

John could feel anger thrumming in his veins. Pushing the others back, John slid off his bed and stood before them, glaring menacingly. "First of all, all of this," John gesticulated wildly, "is none of your business. How dare you all come here, while I'm trying to sleep, and fucking try and accuse me of shit you know nothing about. Second of all, Sherlock's my friend, so if I hear you call him a dirty squib once more, I won't hesitate to hex you. If you wanted to know what was going on, oh, I don't know, maybe you could have asked me politely like normal human beings, but apparently, you're all too delusional to care about common decency any more."

"We've been trying to talk to you for ages, John. We never get a chance, mate." interrupted James, seeing where this was going. "Yes, we're sorry for interrupting you like this – it's rude – but when else can we ask you?"

"Fine, okay, yeah. I've been a little negligent towards you guys but… are you kidding me? 'So… you a fairy then?' What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well..." started Michael, having the audacity to look as though his next words were justifiable. "We just figured, y'know, if you were a fag, that we should have the right to know. I don't know, to move the beds or something."

James' eyes widened and hurriedly opened his mouth to say something in Michael's defence. But it was too late.

They heard the crack before they saw it.