Potterlock – The Prisoner of Azkaban

Author's Note: First off, I apologise for the long wait on this chapter. I've had block like you wouldn't believe, and it's taken me days to just even get started. Blame Merlin. I've been so obsessed with it lately it's clouded all my other creativity. Hopefully this will live up to previous chapters, and I now have plans for its future.

Since not much really happens in the third book that doesn't involve Harry, I've had to invent a little subplot for myself, circling the outskirts of the main storyline. Have decided to give a little literary love to a character I've never really paid much mind to before – King Hufflepuff, Cedric Diggory.

One last request. As you all know, I love you all, and it would mean a great deal to me if you'd do me a favour. My fabulous friend Cassiopiea86 is new to the fanfic scene, and has recently written a few chapters of a Loki-oriented Thor fic and uploaded the first one. It's a slash fic – featuring her OC, werewolf Charlie Lefevre – and is truly one of the best-written I've ever read. After reading it I was like "so, THIS is what natural talent looks like". Please please PLEASE give it a read. You can find it at the top of the list of my favourite stories on my page – titled Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own. Do so and I shall include a VERY steamy dream-scene in the next chapter – an insight of what's to come in later parts :) Many thanks!

Chapter Two

It was the day before they were due back at Hogwarts, and John and Sherlock were spending it atop a high hill near Tanglewood under the shade of a large beech tree. Dusk was closing in, the baking heat having faded to a gentle hum of dark gold light with a faint breeze ruffling the leaves above. John was sprawled out on his front across the grass, his eyes poring over The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three, and Sherlock was propped against the beech trunk, a small battered novel in his hands. The book was actually one of John's own that he'd brought from home, and one of his personal favourites – The Crystal Cave by Mary Stewart. It had been his mother's when she was young, and told the tale of the young wizard Merlin and the infant King Arthur. John had been dumbstruck to discover that Merlin had actually existed in real life – unbeknownst to Muggles, who merely thought him a legend – and his adventures with Arthur may have more basis in fact than he'd once thought.

Sherlock was not a great reader of fiction, Muggle or otherwise – the majority of his bookshelves consisted of old family spell-books and magical histories – but he seemed quite absorbed in The Crystal Cave. It was a shame wizards didn't own televisions or video players, or John would have very much liked to show him some of the Arthurian films he'd grown up with.

Turning the last page, Sherlock set the book down on the grass beside him and stretched his arms above his head. The light around them shone in shades of green and gold, and John could make out flecks of amber-brown in his dark hair.

"What time did your mum say she was getting back?" he asked his friend, who shrugged nonchalantly.

"Some time after dinner," he said. "Don't worry, we'll get back in time."

It had been a week since Mycroft had come bursting through the kitchen fireplace (a form of wizard travel that still made John jump in surprise when it happened over breakfast or dinner) with the news that a notorious murderer, Sirius Black, had broken out of the wizarding prison, Azkaban. John had never seen him so ruffled – he'd almost looked scared.

Since news broke out of Black's escape, all families were advised to not allow their children to wander off alone or stay outside after sunset. This led John to wonder if Black was a vampire.

"D'you reckon they'll catch him?" he asked Sherlock, who couldn't have any doubt of to whom he was referring.

"Possibly," he said, not exactly comfortingly. "Nobody's broken out of Azkaban before so he's certainly a slippery character."

"How long had he been locked up?"

"Twelve years," Sherlock said. "I don't envy him."

"Why would you?" John snorted. He thought – and knew Sherlock was too – about the Azkaban guards Sherlock had told him about – the Dementors, and the horrifying fate that awaited Black upon his capture.

A sudden gust of cold swept over the hill and John shivered. The sun was sinking to just a dark orange line on the horizon.

"Come on," Sherlock said, tucking The Crystal Cave in the pocket of his jacket and rising to his feet. "It's getting cold."

They half-ran down the hill and were both laughing breathlessly when they reached the bottom. The Victorian-style lamps were already glowing amber as they walked down the street. The news of Black's escape had had a noticeable effect on the village's inhabitants – almost every house had their curtains drawn or the shutters closed, and the sounds of merriment that could usually be heard from the local pub, The Witch and Wand, was subdued.

"You there!" a loud voice called from across the square. A tall man in a dark red cloak was walking towards them.

"Mr. Lestrade," Sherlock greeted him.

"You should not be out this late, boys," the older wizard said severely. He had a good-natured face that was lined with worry. "Not with that maniac still on the loose."

"Sorry, sir," John said. "We were just heading back."

"I'll walk with you," Mr. Lestrade said, withdrawing his wand from his belt and keeping it in his hand as they walked back through Tanglewood. John wished he wouldn't – it made him feel uneasy.

"All packed and ready for tomorrow?" Mr. Lestrade asked conversationally as they passed by the pub, glancing down the narrow alleyway that ran alongside it.

"Yes," John said.

"My boy Greg's still got half his trunk spread about the house," Mr. Lestrade clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

Walby opened the door just as they were walking up the front path to the house. He was holding a large wooden spoon in one hand and was looking oddly disapproving at his young master.

"Mistress Violet strictly instructed Masters Sherlock and John to be home before the sun set," he said, waving his spoon rather threateningly at the two boys. "It is not safe to be out late with the criminal Black still free."

John had to suppress a smirk at the tiny creature's displeasure and, from the looks of it, Sherlock was doing the same.

"Forgive them, elf," Mr. Lestrade said, clapping a hand on the boys' shoulders. "They're home now."

Walby sniffed. "Dinner will be ready in ten minutes," he said haughtily, and hobbled off back to the kitchen.

Mr. Lestrade gave a chuckle, bid the boys farewell, and trudged back down the road with his wand still in hand.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooo

The next day, as Sherlock and John passed through the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, they were almost engulfed in a billow of steam from the scarlet engine waiting for them. Mycroft had enlisted the aid of a posh Ministry car to get them to King's Cross, having pulled a couple of strings at work. John had been impressed by the magically enlarged interior of the vehicle, and they'd arrived at the station with twenty minutes to spare.

They met Molly in an empty compartment and dragged their trunks up onto the luggage rack. Then, as the train started to move off, the door slid open again and another boy stepped in. He looked to be a year or so older than them, with short, dark brown hair, and was already wearing his Hufflepuff robes.

"Okay if I sit here?" he asked Molly, who nodded and he sat down, propping his upended trunk against the wall. John suddenly recognised him as the boy they'd shared the coach with back to school last Christmas, but he also reminded him strongly of someone else. Sherlock was also staring intently at him.

"You're Gideon Lestrade's son," he said.

"You should know," Lestrade snorted. "We've lived in the same village since we were born, Holmes."

"Must have overlooked you," Sherlock shrugged, and turned his attention to the now rapidly moving landscape. John smiled apologetically at Lestrade, who raised an exasperated eyebrow back.

"I'm John," he said, holding out a hand which Lestrade shook. He had the shame good-natured face as his father, though without the stress-lines.

"Greg," he replied. He looked at Molly, who was reading a small paperback book by the window. "You're Molly Hooper, right?"

She started, surprised he knew her name, and smiled. "Yes," she shook his hand too. "Nice to meet you."

Molly had changed quite a bit over the summer. She was taller, her brown hair longer, and her body was starting to look more like that of a teenage girl than it had last year. The childish freckles were fading from her face and she was starting to look quite pretty. Lestrade obviously thought to too, John thought with amusement, as he kept glancing over at her as the train rolled on. He even offered to pay for her snacks when the lunch trolley came round. She accepted gratefully, but unfortunately for Lestrade she didn't seem to look upon this gesture as flirtation. Indeed, she spent the first part of the journey trying to prise answers from Sherlock about his summer and what he was looking forward to this term. Sherlock, true to form, kept his answered clipped and far between, until she eventually gave up and returned to the pages of her book.

The day wore on, and just as John was starting to think there couldn't be much further to go, the train began to slow down, before stopping with just a jolt he was nearly catapulted into Lestrade's lap, and Molly's trunk nearly decapitated Sherlock, who managed to stop it just in time with a flick of his wand.

"What's going on?" Molly asked, closing her book and peering out of the window. "I think there's someone out there."

Sherlock squinted through the rain-spattered glass and John saw the blood leave his face, leaving it even paler than usual.

"What's wrong?" John asked, alarmed.

"I think they might—" he started to say, but at that moment the lights in the carriage went out, plunging them into almost total darkness.

"The hell?!" John heard Lestrade get to his feet. Then he promptly sat back down again with a sharp gasp, and John could tell why. It was like a fog of invisible cold had descended upon them – it was filling his chest and head with a numbing sense of hopelessness.

"What the hell's going on?" Lestrade asked, sounding scared.

John could hear Sherlock's teeth chattering beside him, his breath rising in misty clouds. Molly gave a whimper in the darkness, and John reached out to take her hand.

"Argh! Something grabbed me!" Lestrade yelped, and John fell back against his seat, his forehead damp with fearful sweat. Next to him, he could hear Sherlock breath coming in ragged gasps and felt for his hand instead. To his relief and comfort, Sherlock gripped tightly onto his fingers like a frightened child. The sense of despair was growing inside John's chest, like a poison gas creeping into every pore of his body.

Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw it – something tall and dark, draped from head to toe in a long, black cloak. It paused outside the door, turning its head slowly from side to side. For one heart-stopping moment, John thought it was going to step right into their compartment. He wasn't the only one – he could feel Sherlock's whole body trembling, and Lestrade had his arms around Molly, his face shining with sweat. What was this thing? Eventually, the shape decided to enter, not their compartment, but the one on the opposite side of the aisle, where it paused to slide open the door. It breathed in deeply with a noise like a death rattle, and John heard someone inside the compartment fall to the floor. In the semi-darkness, John saw a pale face with dark hair and a pair of round glasses. He was twitching horribly, like he was having some sort of seizure, and John felt a sickening sensation of fear in his stomach as the cloaked monster moved closer. Then, an older voice said loudly, "None of us is hiding Sirius Black under out cloaks! Go."

John could just about see the silhouette of a tall man with his arm extended, his wand pointed at the intruder. The creature ignored his command, so he muttered something under his breath and a haze of silvery light appeared from the end of his wand. The creature shied away from it and hastened back down the aisle, out of sight.

It was about three minutes before the lanterns came back on, and the coldness the creature left in its wake faded. John, breathing deeply, looked around at his companions. Lestrade was practically cradling Molly in his arms, who was shaking like a leaf, and Sherlock was ashen white, his fingers quivering as he detached them from John's.

"What in the name of Merlin was that?" Lestrade gasped as he and Molly straightened up.

"Dementor," Sherlock said quietly.

"That was a Dementor?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"D'you have any Chocolate Frogs left?" he asked, nodded at the pile of sweet wrappers on the seat beside John.

"A couple," John said, fishing around and finding three.

Sherlock gave two to Molly and Lestrade, and broke the third in half for himself and John. "Mother says it helps," he said, when the other three gave him confused looks. He was right. By the time the atmosphere on the train was almost back to normal, while still a bit shaky, John was feeling miles better.

"So they think Black would just be sitting calmly on the train?" Lestrade scoffed, swallowing the last of his chocolate. "D'you reckon the Ministry ordered them to do it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "My brother said they were going to be guarding the school this year," he said.

"Because of Potter?" They all glanced into the opposite compartment, where Harry was starting to come round. John saw the tall man handing out chunks of chocolate to everyone.

"Sirius Black's been on the Muggle news," Molly said. "I didn't know he was a wizard."

"My dad says he's a maniac," Lestrade said. "Killed loads of Muggles several years ago."

"Why?"

"Why? 'Cause he's a nutter," Lestrade snorted. "He was You-Know-Who's henchman. And now he's after Potter 'cause of what he did to You-Know-You."

Molly sighed. "Doesn't seem he can ever get a break, can he?"

The Great Hall was comfortingly warm when they finally reached Hogwarts. Almost everyone was discussing the Dementor's appearance on the train, and John could hear Draco Malfoy crowing to his Slytherin cronies – including his closest lackeys: Crabbe, Goyle and Moriarty – about how Harry had fainted on the train.

"He's such a tosser," Lestrade said disdainfully. "Bet he wasn't so cool on the train."

Lestrade left their group to join his housemates at the Hufflepuff table, while John, Molly and Sherlock sat down with the Gryffindors. Nobody batted an eyelid at Sherlock's presence there, though a couple of the Ravenclaws gave him distasteful looks at his lack of House pride.

The Sorting seemed to go on for much longer than most people's stomachs would have preferred, but they still had to wait a little longer to fill them, as Professor Dumbledore made the usual notices – this year highlighting the presence of the Dementors around the castle that year, and secondly introducing the new members of staff. These included the man they'd seen on the train, Professor Lupin, and the gamekeeper Hagrid, who'd been appointed as the new Care of Magical Creatures teacher. That certainly explained the slightly bizarre choice of literature John had been instructed to buy – The Monster Book of Monsters. From what he'd heard from Harry, Hagrid had a penchant for dangerous animals. Once Dumbledore was finished, John piled his plate with piping hot chips, steak, peas, and a large pool of gravy. Everyone was hungry, so there wasn't much talk until they were helping themselves to seconds. John laughed with Dean and Seamus, sitting opposite them, about the summer, before helping themselves to trifle, treacle tart and chocolate gateau.

John and Sherlock parted ways at the Grand Staircase – John right to Gryffindor Tower, Sherlock to Ravenclaw. They were both tired, and John was very pleased to change into his pyjamas and fall into his plush four-poster bed, breathing in the smell of clean linen and lavender from a small pouch a house-elf had placed under his pillow. Even the memory of the Dementor on the train could not quell the satisfied feeling John had as he closed his eyes, the sound of the rain pattering softly on the window lulling him into a deep sleep.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooo

The first week of term was rather manic, even by Hogwarts standards. Most of the students and staff seemed on edge, partially because of Sirius Black, and partially because of the Dementors lurking at each entrance to the school grounds. While they were far away enough not to cause any real disturbance, the knowledge of their presence and the gloomy mist that now surrounded the grounds was distracting enough. Malfoy was still relishing in the fact that Harry had been so badly affected by the one on the train, but the Weasley twins, Fred and George, had also taken to reminding him of how he'd come running into their compartment gibbering like an idiot, which seemed to pacify him for a while.

There was also a sense of excitement in the wake of the third years' new classes. John had signed up for Care of Magical Creatures with Molly, Harry and Ron, and Muggle Studies with Seamus and Dean. Hermione, who'd taken every subject available, was also going to be present. The third years had been split into two groups per each House, depending on which subjects they'd chosen, so first lesson on Monday, John accompanied Dean to Muggle Studies, while Sherlock went to Arithmancy, and Molly, Harry, Ron and Hermione climbed to North Tower for Divination.

Muggle Studies proved to be quite a surprisingly interesting subject. Professor Burbage started the lesson by explaining about how the divide between Muggles and wizards had first arisen – when the wizarding officials decreed it too dangerous for the wizarding community to converse their secrets to the Muggle population, some time closely following the end of the sixteenth century. However, she stressed that Muggles were not so different from wizards in their talents of industry and technology – something which clearly baffled some of the residents of the class who'd grown up in a purely wizarding environment. For the first term of the year, they were going to be focusing on electricity, and how it benefited the lives of Muggles. They were set the task of searching their books for examples of electrical gadgets used in Muggle homes, just as a fun little exercise. For John and Dean, this was rather like asking a published writer to list ten words beginning with the letter S, and they completed their list in ten seconds flat.

Molly was looking rather nervous when John caught up with her in the corridor on the way to Transfiguration, and she explained to John about Professor Trelawney's sinister predictions in regards to Harry's future, and the omen of death she'd seen in his tea-leaves. John was starting to feel a little alarmed himself, before Professor McGonagall calmly but firmly expressed her cynical views on the subject of Divination, and explained Professor Trelawney's habit of foreseeing the death of at least one student a year. By the time the bell for lunch came, they were all feeling substantially more comforted in the question of Harry's health – aside from a Lavender and Parvati, who seemed to have taken what Trelawney had said as gospel.

John knew Sherlock would be coming out of Charms, so made his way to the fourth floor to meet him. As he was climbing the third staircase, he got caught up in a stampede of Hufflepuff sixth years, and ended up dropping his bag, some of his books spilling out onto the steps. He sighed heavily and knelt down to pick them up, only to find someone already doing so.

"Here," the person stood up and smiled, holding out Intermediate Transfiguration, Magical Theory and A History of Magic to their owner. Tall and slender, dark-hair, grey eyes, straight nose – Cedric Diggory really was a sight to behold.

"Thanks," John said, shoving the books back in his bag and smiling at Cedric. He'd often noticed the Hufflepuff Seeker in the corridors – him and most of the female population of Hogwarts – as it was pretty hard not to. Not only was he handsome, but he was also a Prefect and such a nice guy it was impossible not to like him.

"You okay?" Cedric asked.

"Yeah," John nodded, hoping he hadn't been gaping.

"Cool," Cedric gave him a pat on the shoulder and headed off down the stairs. "See you around."

John stood staring after him as he went, until the staircase jerking into a different direction brought him back to his senses. A year ago, what he was feeling might have scared him – certainly confused him – but he now knew there wasn't any harm in fancying Cedric. He doubted he was the first closeted student to do so. It wasn't the same as how he felt about Sherlock – it was warm and fuzzy in comparison to the torturous passion he felt for his best friend – and it wasn't an unpleasant sensation. It was refreshing to know he could feel stuff like this for someone other than Sherlock. It proved that he wasn't a lost cause. If he could crush on Cedric, he could crush on another boy – someone who might even return his feelings rather than expressly repel romance of any kind like Sherlock did.

Feeling emotionally enlightened and quite a bit happier, John met Sherlock in the Charms corridor and they headed off to the Great Hall for lunch.

"You seem happy," Sherlock said suspiciously, while John hummed to himself as they sat down.

"Hmm. . . what?" he asked, taking a large gulp of pumpkin juice.

"Your cheeks are flushed, you're humming and you keep smiling," Sherlock said, a sly grin playing about his own lips. "Someone find themselves a flame?"

"Maybe," John said ambiguously, delighting at the narrow-eyed look of curiosity on his friend's face and helping himself to casserole. "We'll see."