Potterlock – The Prisoner of Azkaban

Author's Note: Slash! Slash for everyone! One steamy dream sequence, as promised. Thank you all who read Cassiopiea86's story! So I wrote most of this scene while listening to Oh My God by P!nk – a VERY good song for writing/reading sex to and worth looking up.

I keep miswriting Sherlock's name as 'Shelrock' – which sounds like the Aerosmith of Spongebob Squarepants.

This chapter brings forth Bitchy Sherlock once again, but it's all for the greater good ("the grea'er good") of the story, so forgive me, my lovely fans.

Chapter Three

John couldn't sleep that night. His mind was dancing. His feelings for Cedric – juvenile and lukewarm though they may have been – were something of a liberation. It was like an entire world of possibility had been opened up for him, full of potential romance and – dare he hope? – boyfriends. He was even starting to lose that desire to be straight that had harboured inside him since he realised his feelings for Sherlock. He knew who he was and what he wanted. True, what he really wanted was rather unattainable (for Sherlock to proclaim his undying love and devotion to an adoring, applauding crowd), but this was certainly a start.

He gave a happy sigh and turned over onto his side, bringing his knees up beneath the duvet, one arm under his pillow. He allowed himself to imagine Cedric's face, kind-hearted and handsome, behind his closed eyelids. He envisioned a moment when they were alone together – perhaps in an empty classroom or in a secluded corner of the castle grounds – and Cedric was smiling at him, his hands reaching out to cup his face, his lips drawing closer. . .

John's breath caught in his throat as he felt Cedric's soft lips touch his own. He wound his arms around the older boy's waist and hugged him, as Cedric lifted him gently from the ground and placed him on the bed beside them. Cedric nuzzled the skin at the crook of John's shoulder, and the thirteen-year-old breathed in the scent of his new boyfriend – he smelled like fresh air and sweet, perfumed soap.

"Cedric. . ." he whispered, and his heart raced as Cedric captured his lips again in a kiss. A warm glow spread throughout John's body, and he felt a telltale hardness develop beneath his robes. Cedric chuckled.

"Getting excited?" he asked in his smooth, mellow voice.

"A little." Cedric pinned John's wrists above his head with one hand and John laughed. "What are you doing?"

Cedric loosened the tie around his neck and used it to bind John's wrists together, straddling John's hips and holding him in place with his soft weight.

"We're waiting for our guest," he said. "Wouldn't want you running away before he gets here."

"He. . .?" The door to the room opened and close, and John craned his head to look at the new arrival. "Sherlock!"

His best friend was standing there, arms folded, a crafty smirk on his face.

"Been having fun?" he asked John's playful captor, who was still preventing John from moving (not that he was complaining).

"Just getting started," Cedric grinned, and began to undo the fastenings on John's robes. Sherlock walked slowly to the side of the bed and knelt down beside it, his face level with John's.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked.

John didn't know how to answer, but was spared thinking of a reply when Sherlock kissed him. His lips were as different from Cedric's as air is from fire – Cedric's kiss was warm and gentle, Sherlock's was full of a passion that send shocks through every inch of John's body. He moaned and wriggled beneath Cedric as the older boy got to work on his jeans, through which the sizeable lump was now startlingly noticeable.

Sherlock moved his mouth to the tender spot just below John's ear, worshiping the skin there with his lips and tongue, and just as John thought he'd died and gone to heaven, he let out a loud gasp and bucked his hips into the warm wetness that was Cedric's mouth. The Hufflepuff drew his lips tantalisingly slowly to the tip of John's erection, before engulfing him in that wet heat again, and John thought his brain might explode from the pleasure of it.

"I think he likes it," Sherlock said.

"Mmm," Cedric affirmed, and the vibration of his voice against John's shaft sent a warm rush to the base of his spine.

"Sherlock," John gasped, fighting at the bonds restraining his wrists.

"Shall we set him free?" Cedric asked, raising his head.

"Oh, I don't think so," Sherlock said offhandedly. "Let's have a bit more fun, shall we?"

Cedric smiled. "Yes, let's."

John felt the Hufflepuff's strong-fingered hands tugging on the waistband of his jeans, pulling them down over his hips and off completely, flinging them into a corner of the room. He now felt horribly exposed and squirmed in embarrassment, his cheeks flushing crimson.

"Aww, look at him," Cedric chuckled and John heard the sound of a zip being lowered. His heart started pounding and he felt a knot of nerves form in his stomach.

"W-wait!" he stammered as Cedric discarded his own jeans and knelt at the end of the bed, lifting John's legs so they rested on his broad shoulders.

"It's alright," Sherlock purred, teasing one of John's nipples with his finger and thumb. "We won't hurt you."

"Never," said Cedric compassionately.

Sherlock tossed Cedric a tube of something from a draw in the bedside desk. Cedric popped the top and squeezed a copious amount of clear gel onto his fingers, which he then used to slick the length of his own erection, already poised at the entrance between John's legs. John knew it was going to hurt, but he also felt a sense of trembling anticipation. Very slowly, Cedric began to push the tip of his member against John's hole, pausing to give John time to adjust when he finally breached the tight ring of muscle.

John gasped and Sherlock immediately kissed him, their tongues waging war against each other for dominance. As Cedric pushed himself in deeper, Sherlock moved his hand down John's torso until he reached the hilt of his arousal, meekly resting on his abdomen. The sensation of being filled by Cedric while Sherlock was sliding his long fingers up and down his shaft, his thumb rubbing the sensitive spot at the tip of the head, was overwhelming. He let out a high-pitched gasp and heard Cedric and Sherlock chuckling, the latter starting to move his hand faster while Cedric's thrusts became more forceful. The tip of his cock brushed against something deep inside John and he writhed against the bed linen. It was too much, too hot, he was going to—

"Not yet, baby," Cedric suddenly pulled out and John moaned at the loss, the fire that had been building in his groin subsiding to a warm glow as Sherlock continued to pump him. Cedric crawled up one side of the bed and pressed his mouth against John's dry lips.

"John," Sherlock's voice said and both other boys looked up. He had his parted lips open, inches from John's now rock-hard member. "I want you to watch me." He said, and lowered his mouth. His technique was faster than Cedric's, and at one point John even felt his tip touch the back of Sherlock's throat. It was a strange and wonderful sight – Sherlock's full lips circled around him, his eyes partly closed, his dark pink tongue swirling around the head. John had to cover his mouth to stop himself crying out. His hands and knees were trembling as the build-up of pleasure increased, Sherlock's head bobbing up and down at an incredible pace, and Cedric's fingers teased his hair as he moved John's hands away to kiss him. The younger boy clawed the bed sheets and gasped fretfully as the white heat churning in the deepest pit of his stomach rose to a crescendo, crashing back down with spurts of warm fluid into Sherlock's mouth. John cried out, his voice catching in his throat and his whole body giving way to the shaking that was travelling upwards from his toes, curled in pure, unadulterated bliss. . .

John jerked awake, his hips still unconsciously bucking against his duvet, riding out the pleasure still coursing through his veins. He opened his eyes – he was panting hard, and his forehead was slick with sweat. Pale blue light was trickling in through the window beside his bed – it must have been nearly dawn.

"Holy fuck," he gasped, pressed his hands against his face and breathing deeply. Then he felt something wet and oddly warm on the inside of his leg. "Oh, damn."

The underside of his duvet now had a large damp spot – courtesy of John's dream. And what a dream! John would have laughed were he not worried of waking his roommates, all of whom were still soundly asleep, Ron and Neville both snoring softly. Gingerly, John pulled back his covers. He now regretted sleeping nude that night – at least pyjamas would have lessened the blow his poor sheets had suffered, then no-one would need know. He didn't know how often the house-elves changed the linen on the beds. Could be days. Could he sleep with a large come-stain on his duvet and it not bother him? No, probably not.

John decided to go and have a shower, to rid himself of the evidence of his shame from his legs at least. He tugged on his pyjamas – a sticky, unpleasant experience – and tiptoed out of the dormitory. His watch told him it was ten past four, so he doubted anyone would be about to question his chosen attire for roaming the castle, or why he was up so early.

The Fat Lady gave a small snort as she woke when John pushed the portrait hole open, and peered blearily down at him.

"Where are you going?" she asked sleepily.

"Bathroom," John said, and walked off down the corridor. As he'd expected, the castle was almost completely deserted, though he thought he heard Peeves zooming round somewhere upstairs. He hoped he wouldn't meet him – the wretched poltergeist would have John's humiliation spread throughout the school before breakfast – and hurried on. The Gryffindor Common Room was on the seventh floor, and the third years' bathroom was on the fifth, so it was fifteen minutes before he found himself standing in front of the handle-less door beneath the tapestry of Emerton the Eager.

"Squeaky clean," John said to the door, which obligingly swung open. He stepped through and was just shrugging off his pyjama jacket when he heard a small squeak behind him and turned. A tiny house-elf was standing by the towel-rack, restocking the shelves with fresh, fluffy white towels.

"Hello," John said.

"A very good morning to you, sir," the elf said with a curtsey. It had a tiny snubbed nose and very long ears – from the shrillness of its voice John guessed it may be female. "Forgive Gilda, sir – she was just putting out fresh towels. She will not be a moment."

"It's okay," John said, turning to walk through to the changing rooms. Then, struck by a sudden thought, he looked back. "Um – Gilda?"

"Yes, sir?" the elf quickly stashed the last of the towels on the rack and curtseyed again. "How may Gilda be of assistance?"

"How. . . how often is are the beds changed in the Common Rooms?"

"Every three days, sir," the elf replied. "At ten o'clock in the morning, sir. They are to be changed the day after tomorrow."

"Right," John said awkwardly. "Is there any chance mine could be changed today? It's just I, um, I spilled a potion on the sheets."

"Of course, sir," Gilda curtseyed again. "May Gilda ask which House and bed is yours?"

"Yeah," John said. "Gryffindor, third year dormitory – straight opposite the door."

"We shall see that it is attended to, sir," the elf nodded. "If it pleases you, sir, Gilda will leave now."

"Oh, sure," John said, stepping aside to let the elf by. "Thanks a lot."

"It is Gilda's pleasure, sir," the elf curtseyed once more, and left the room.

It probably won't be for the poor elf who has to do it, John thought, but felt relieved all the same. As long as none of his roommates felt the urge to inspect the state of his linen no-one need ever know of the incident. At least he hadn't wet the bed. That would have been bad. He just hoped it didn't happen again anytime soon.

He discarded his pyjamas and collected one of the towels Gilda had laid out, hanging it from the hook outside the shower cubicle he chose. His pyjama trousers were really quite disgusting now. As he stepped into the hot water spray, he wondered briefly if the house-elves were used to this kind of thing from the male students. He can't have been the only one it had ever happened to, surely. All the books and leaflets said that it was perfectly normal for teenage boys to have those kinds of dreams. Well, maybe not that particular kind of dream, but certainly with the same outcome.

John's faced flushed scarlet as he thought back to the content of the night's vision, and he felt a squirming in the pit of his stomach. It had all been so vivid, like an R-rated film. Now he was awake, though, it was almost comical to think of Sherlock doing pretty much anything that he'd done in the dream. He couldn't quite imagine Cedric calling him 'baby', either. There was no way Sherlock could possibly be that experienced – he'd never even kissed anyone before. In truth, neither had John, but he knew the basic idea. Sherlock probably considered kissing about as worthwhile an activity as stamp-collecting or squeezing one's spots in front of a mirror. The thought was he would be an expert in fellatio was nothing short of laughable.

God, it had been hot though. . .

John could feel a stirring between his legs as he thought back to the finer details of the dream, like how soft Cedric's lips had been, or how Sherlock's fingers had felt as they'd caressed him. Taking full advantage of the fact that it was still only four-thirty and no-one was likely to walk in, John allowed himself ten minutes of self-administered satisfaction – the cloudy liquid washing down the drain-hole with the rest of last night's evidence.

There was still no-one about as John made his way back up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. He'd been thoroughly surprised – and extremely grateful – to see that, while he was in the shower, his sullied pyjama trousers had been replaced with freshly clean ones and neatly folded on top of his shirt, possibly by Gilda. God bless house-elves, he thought, running a hand through his still damp hair. He was just turning a corner at the end of a long passage, into the seven-floor shaft of moving staircases, when he stepped straight into something solid.

"Ouch!" he said, rubbing his chest where he'd received a rather sharp jab.

"Sorry," a voice said hastily. "You alright? Blimey, didn't think anyone else'd be up."

You have got to be kidding me, John marvelled as he looked up at Cedric Diggory's face. Of all the people to run into. He was dressed in his yellow Quidditch robes and carrying a broomstick in one hand – the source of the jab John had received to his ribs.

"Hey," he said, smiling down at John, who hoped his face remained passive. "It's you."

"Uhh, yeah," John said, forcing a smile back. "Me."

"What're you doing up so early?"

"Sleepwalking," John said immediately, then inwardly cursed himself. Sleepwalking? What sort of a lame excuse was that? Why could he not have just said "the bathroom"? Because oh no, that would be far too simple – no, he had to blurt out the most random thing his brain could come up with in two seconds.

"Ah," Cedric laughed. "That explains the pyjamas. But. . . not the wet hair."

Oh, blow. John racked his mind. "Peeves," he said. "Dropped a water-bomb on me."

Too late he realised this didn't explain why, while his hair was damp, his pyjamas were spotlessly dry. Thankfully, Cedric decided not to press the matter. He probably just thought John was a bit weird. Great.

"He's a bit of a pest," he said, shifting the broom handle in his hand. "Well, best be off – practice and all that."

"Yeah, sure," John said, stepping around the taller boy and smiling awkwardly.

"Well, good to see you again," Cedric said. "What's your name?"

"John," he said.

"Cedric." As if there wasn't a single person in the school above first year that didn't know his name. "See you around, John."

"Yeah," John tried to keep the excited breathlessness out of his voice. "See you. Cedric."

Cedric set off down the staircase to their right, slinging his broom over his shoulder as he went. Before disappearing down the corridor at the bottom, he turned and gave John a cheery wave, which John returned somewhat shakily. Hogwarts was one great big vessel of coincidences and random timing, he thought as he began to make his way back to Gryffindor Tower, not meeting anyone else. The Fat Lady was fast asleep again when he reached her, and he had to announce his presence quite loudly before she grudgingly woke up.

"There ought to be a rule that states student may not be permitted to enter at such ridiculous hours!" she snapped.

"Fortuna Major," John whined. "Please?"

She gave an ill-tempered huff and reluctantly swung forward. The Common Room was completely empty – it was only five-fifteen – and John was now too awake to go back to sleep. He sank into an armchair by the empty fire-grate and picked up a copy of Unfogging The Future someone had left on a nearby table. Divination didn't look like an appealing subject, he thought as he flipped through the pages. There was a lot of waffle about "broadening your minds to see past the mundane" and "searching for the Seer within". Load of hippy nonsense, really.

The light filtering in through the windows slowly turned from pale mauve to watery yellow, as the sun rose over the Forbidden Forest, the faint sounds of birdsong announcing the sunrise. John's fingers slackened on the pages of Unfogging The Future and his head lolled back against the armchair. . .

"John?"

John jerked upright and the heavy book in his hands fell to the floor from where it had been perched precariously on his knee. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was now nearly seven-thirty, and people were starting to rouse. It was Seamus who had wakened him, still curled up in the chair, a slight damp patch forming on the material where he'd rested his head.

"You haven't been here all night?" the Irish boy smirked.

"No," John said groggily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Got up to go to the bathroom."

"Okay," Seamus noticed the book lying at his foot. "Oh, that's where it is," he said, picking it up and straightened a couple of bent pages. "Wish I hadn't taken it now," he said bitterly. "Stupid. Did you hear what she said 'bout Harry?"

John shook his head.

"Trelawney reckons he's for the chop," Seamus dragged his forefinger along his throat. "Saw a Grim in his teacup. Death omen," he added at John's confused expression.

"Oh!" John blinked in shocked surprise.

"Yep," Seamus looked thoroughly amused by the news of Harry's impending doom. "Me mam says Divination's a load of old tosh, actually, but it looked easier than the other ones. Dean reckons I should've taken Muggle Studies instead."

Then Dean himself appeared and the two boys headed off through the portrait hole, leaving John to return to their dorm room to change.

There was an atmosphere of uneasiness among the Gryffindor third years at breakfast, and John reckoned he could guess why – Hagrid's disastrous first lesson yesterday afternoon. His friendly, hairy face was missing from the staff table, as was Malfoy's presence from the Slytherins. Anyone with a logical mind knew that the slimy git was alright – Madam Pomfrey had re-grown the bones in Harry's arm last year, so she could easily mend a cut – but that didn't stop the Slytherins acting like the hippogriff had bitten his stupid head off.

"It'll be a miracle if he's not sacked," said Sherlock loudly, with all the subtly of a sledgehammer.

"Sherlock," John muttered, glancing down the table at Harry, Ron and Hermione's anxious faces.

"It's true," Sherlock shrugged, taking a mouthful of toast. "You know what Lucius Malfoy's like – he got Dumbledore sacked last year, so a half-giant wouldn't be a problem."

John nearly dropped his goblet.

"Didn't you know?" Sherlock said to his astonished friend.

"No," John whispered. "How do you—?"

"By using that rather useful thing called a brain, John," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Maybe you should get one. What did you think – he'd swallowed a bottle of Skele-Gro or something?"

"Well, I don't know," John said. "When you've grown up a Muggle you kinda think anything's possible here."

"Well, he's obviously not pure giant because they're enormous – size of trees, some of them – but definitely one of his parents. It's certainly not good news for his case. A half-giant who teaches hippogriffs to third years? Not good."

"But it only attacked Malfoy 'cause he insulted it," John said exasperatedly. "Me and Molly heard him. And Hagrid did warn us about being rude to them."

"Well, Malfoy's a stupid prick, we know that. Thing is that doesn't exactly help Hagrid's case. Mycroft says most of the governors are scared of him."

"Couldn't Mycroft do something?"

Sherlock snorted and shook his head. "Just because he's my brother doesn't mean he obeys my every whim."

"But this is more than that! We're talking about an innocent life—"

"Of a hippogriff, John," Sherlock sighed. "Mycroft's not gonna risk his position in the Ministry for something he used to call 'horsey-birds' when he was five."

John couldn't help but laugh at that, then sighed. "It's so unfair."

"That it is," Sherlock said. "But since when were Slytherin's fair? You want a Hufflepuff for that."

John glanced over at the Hufflepuff table, where he could see Cedric laughing with a couple of his friends. His stomach swooped then full-out lurched when Cedric's eyes lifted and locked with his. He smiled and gave a little wave. John quickly averted his gaze to his cereal – which didn't look suspicious at all – and realised that Sherlock was now staring at him. The was a curious expression on his face – something between suspicion and annoyance.

"What?"

Sherlock dropped his gaze back to his plate. "So I've been thinking about you," he said.

John blinked, the heat rising in his face. "R-really?"

"About this person you like," Sherlock said. "I've come up with three possible candidates."

"Oh?" John said. His heart was pounding.

"Number one," Sherlock took a gulp of juice from his goblet. "Molly."

"No," John said quickly. "She's just a friend."

"Okay," Sherlock nodded. "Number two, me."

John spluttered and choked on the spoonful of cornflakes he was trying to swallow.

"Y-you?" he squawked.

"Studies show that you're seventy percent more likely to develop romantic or sexual attraction to those you spend the most time with, family aside. Unless you're a freak."

"What studies?"

"Mine. Well?"

"No," John didn't think he'd ever lied so hard in his life, trying to keep eye contact with his friend all the time – not a particularly easy task. "Definitely not you. Just. . . no."

"Okay," Sherlock nodded. "Good."

Good. John had no idea one single word could be so painful. It was like a kick in the gut. Sherlock was glad at the thought that John didn't fancy him – relieved, even. Well, that certainly answered a lot of questions he wouldn't have to ask now.

"Thirdly," Sherlock continued, blind to John's anguish, "Cedric Diggory."

"Huh?!"

"New theory. I saw you looking at him just now," Sherlock nodded over to the Hufflepuff table. "Kind of obvious."

"Well, aren't you the bright one," John said dryly.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "So, I'm right?"

"Doesn't matter," John frowned, pushing his bowl away.

Sherlock smirked and leaned back in triumph. "So little John Watson's got it for Hufflepuff's golden boy," he crowed.

"Keep your damn voice down," John hissed and glanced fearfully around them, but luckily no-one seemed to have heard him.

"It's not a big deal," Sherlock shrugged.

Well, that's something, John thought bitterly.

"Got to say, John," Sherlock said with a laugh that sounded almost cruel to John's ears. "You could have gone for someone a little less obvious."

John got to his feet so fast he upset a jug of pumpkin juice, splattering a couple of nearby sixth years.

"The hell, dude?" one of them cursed, mopping his lap with a napkin. But John was already halfway down the aisle between the tables towards the door.