Potterlock – The Prisoner of Azkaban

Author's Note: So today I am going to attempt that which I am most nervous about – writing from Sherlock's POV. And I do hope I'd done a halfway decent job. I wrote most of this chapter during my lunch-breaks at work, listening primarily to Bad Things by Jace Everett (which has become my theme for Dean and Castiel – Supernatural is my new fandom) and Too Close by Alex Clare – both BRILLIANT tunes worth looking up.

I would like to point out at this moment (and earnest apologies to anyone who thinks differently) that I have never envisioned Robert Pattinson as Cedric. Throughout this fic I've imagined him as the three-way lovechild of Jensen Ackles, Misha Collins and Gaspard Ulliel. In other words: phwoar.

Chapter Four

John stormed through the Great Hall and back up the staircase. He was going to sit and fume in Gryffindor Tower until their first lesson started. How dare Sherlock say that to him? God-damn jerk! What did he know about it? He understood nothing – nothing – about the human heart. How it felt to have it race when the person you liked was nearby – when they looked at you, made you feel like you meant something, that there was even the slightest chance they might feel the same way about you. Cedric was worth ten of Sherlock bloody Holmes! He was kind, thoughtful, and friendly to almost everyone he met. He wasn't like a coin – ready to flip at a moment's notice when the fancy took him. Sherlock couldn't just say things like that and think it was okay. Was it so impossible for him to understand that it was hard enough for John's secret to be blown so clean out of the water without him criticizing it as well? So maybe Cedric was an obvious choice – so what? It wasn't like John stood a chance with him anyway, and Sherlock knew this. So why, why, did he have to be so mean about it? He was supposed to be John's best friend. He was supposed to be supportive and, while he may not sympathise with John's problem, he could at least try to be a little more tactful. But no, of course not. Not Sherlock I-Don't-Give-A-Shit-About-Other-People's-Feelings Holmes.

John didn't realise he was crying until he tasted salt at the corner of his mouth. He paused by a suit of armour to catch his breath and scrubbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands.

"Hey, John!" someone called.

John looked up and blearily saw someone jogging towards him. With a jolt of his insides he realised it was Cedric.

"Hi," he said, trying to sound chipper, which was a little hard considering his red eyes and trembling lower lip. Cedric looked down at him with what seemed like genuine concern.

"What's up?" he asked. "I saw you running out of the Hall."

"S'nothing," John sniffed, wiping his nose attractively – not – on his sleeve. "Sherlock just. . . he's just being a jerk."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Cedric said in an uncharacteristically dry tone.

John gave a feeble laugh and tried for a smile.

"I've heard the way he talks to you sometimes," Cedric said. "In the Library and whatnot. You don't have to put up with it, John."

"He doesn't mean it," John lied. He wasn't sure why he was defending him, even now. "He's just. . ."

"A prat," Cedric finished for him, and John laughed a little louder.

"Look," Cedric said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know it's none of my business, but don't let him walk all over you."

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean don't just forgive him all the time because he's your friend. He should learn he can't treat people like that and expect them to just come running back to him because he's The Great Sherlock Holmes."

"You're right," John said miserably.

"You don't have to settle for half, John," Cedric said. "Ever. Yes?"

"I s'pose."

"It mean it," Cedric said, his dark grey eyes staring right into John's, whose heart was doing some kind of dance inside his chest. "Don't be a tag-along in your own life, John."

Is this another dream? John wondered as Cedric smiled at him. This boy he liked so much actually thought he was worth something. He certainly thought he was worth running after for. John's heart swelled and, to his annoyance, tears started to well up in his eyes again.

"Come here," Cedric's arms reached out and wrapped themselves around the smaller boy's shoulders, and John allowed himself to vent his feelings all over the front of his robes.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooo

Sherlock was confused.

It wasn't often that this phenomenon happened – he could usually come to any conclusion faster than blinking – but when it came to John his brain came to a halt more often than at any other time. Before coming to Hogwarts, he'd never had much call to deal with other people's emotions. He'd known what emotions were – happy, sad, angry, what have you – but he'd never had so many of them fired in his direction before. At home, his mother had mostly left him to his own devices after the age of six, and Mycroft was too busy plotting his own future to converse much with his little brother. The neighbourhood children had held no interest for him with their loud, rough-and-tumble games, and so he'd spent most of his childhood alone – reading books, practicing the little magic he knew, and building on his already impressive intellect. There was no call, no need, for the seemingly never-ending surge of feelings John expressed almost every day. And now, when Sherlock was simply speaking his mind – and the truth – he was angry with him again.

Sherlock would never admit this of course, but the feelings he was experiencing right now puzzled him. He'd been shocked at John's sudden departure from the Hall, and had felt something stir in the pit of his stomach when he'd noticed Diggory hurrying after him, concern on his face. Sherlock wondered if the thick-sculled oaf knew John's feelings for him. Probably not. Any boy with a face that pretty couldn't possibly have the brains to figure it out.

"Sherlock."

The Ravenclaw looked up. Lestrade was standing next to him, a small frown creasing his forehead. Sherlock didn't acknowledge him verbally but he sat down in the empty space beside him anyway.

"What's up with John?"

"How should I know?" Sherlock shrugged, picking up his toast, now cold, and finding that his appetite had significantly diminished for some reason.

"Because you know everything," Lestrade said dryly.

"True."

"Did you say something to him?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing that really concerns you."

Lestrade raised his hands in mock defence. "Sorry, Your Highness," he frowned. He picked up a piece of toast from the rack in front of him and took a large bite. The Gryffindors sitting opposite regarded the two non-housemates with confusion. What did they mean by it? A Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff sitting at their table, stealing their toast? Outrageous.

Sherlock couldn't say that he liked Lestrade that much. He'd vaguely noticed him as they were growing up – a scruffy-looking boy with a too-wide smile and a loud laugh – but there was nothing about him worth admiring. He was a cookie-cut Hufflepuff – not particularly talented or interesting, just nice. Now he thought about it, one might use that same description for John. Except John was different. He couldn't explain how. He just. . .was. Yet Sherlock felt compelled to confide in the untalented, uninteresting, nice Hufflepuff boy. He was older than he, more sociable – he may know what John's problem was.

"John's gay," he said, smirking as Lestrade choked on the bread he was trying to swallow.

"S-seriously?" he coughed, thumping his chest with his fist to clear his airway.

"He's attracted to Diggory."

"What – Cedric?" Lestrade glanced over to his table at Diggory's vacated seat. "Blimey."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I told him he could have chosen someone less obvious."

"You what?" Lestrade looked back and Sherlock with narrowed eyes.

"He could at least have selected someone worth wasting emotions over," Sherlock shrugged. "It's not as if Diggory feels the same."

Lestrade paused, looking thoughtful. "Did you know he was gay before you found out about Cedric?"

"No," Sherlock said. "Easy enough to guess from how he was looking at him just now."

"Let me get this straight," Lestrade said. "You told John you knew he was gay."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "He seemed surprised."

"I can imagine. Then you said you knew he fancied Cedric."

"Yes," Sherlock said impatiently. What was the dunce getting at?

"And then you told him it was stupid to fancy Cedric anyway?"

"Yes. . ." Sherlock said. Hearing his words spoken back to him was making them sound slightly less acceptable.

"What sort of heartless bastard are you?" Lestrade said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Are you actually mentally ill?"

"I don't see the problem," Sherlock said calmly, though a flush rose in his cheeks at Lestrade's insult. "I was just being honest."

"Oh, don't give me that," Lestrade snapped. "There's being honest then there's being a jerk. Did he ask for your opinion?"

"Well, not exact—"

"Did he by any chance seem upset when you outed him like that? Anyone could have been listening!"

"So what if they were? There's nothing wrong with being gay."

"Oh, so you are vaguely human," Lestrade said in mock surprise. "It might be easy for you not to care about what people think, wrapped in your little ego bubble, but it's not like that for everyone."

"I don't see why—"

"Oh, just shut up," Lestrade said, real contempt in his voice. Sherlock sat back, shocked into silence. Lestrade lowered his voice. "Listen. Kids are cruel. Not all of them are, but some. Take the entirety of Slytherin, for example." He nodded over at the furthermost table in the Hall. "If anyone had heard you just announcing John was gay, word would get around, and not everyone would be so understanding. Can you imagine what pricks like them," he gestured to Malfoy and Moriarty, laughing at some joke on the Slytherin table, "would do if they found out? They'd make his life hell. John's the last person who needs or deserves to be bullied. And if anyone told Cedric that John has a crush on him, he'd be mortified. If you fancy someone, sometimes the last thing in the world that you want is for them to know it."

"Oh, like you and Molly Hooper?" Sherlock said, finding his voice.

"To an extent, yes," Lestrade nodded, not looking slightly abashed. "But that's different. Yeah, there isn't anything wrong with guys liking guys, or girls liking girls, but not everyone sees it that way. You can't just rip a secret like that from him and then say it's pointless anyway."

"It wasn't that bad!" Sherlock said, his voice rising in anger. "All I said was that Diggory was an obvious choice!"

"Keep your voice down," Lestrade warned. "It's none of your damn business if he's 'obvious' or not. John likes him and he wants you to accept that – it's part of who he is. If his best friend can't support him in this then what hope must he feel he has of anyone else doing it? You hurt him, Sherlock, and when has he ever hurt you?"

I hurt him.

The words reverberated in Sherlock's head. It was a strange and truly unpleasant feeling – the guilt that welled up inside him at Lestrade's accusation. It was true – John was the best, the truest friend anyone could ask for. Loyal, brave, honest – he was everything Gryffindor was meant to stand for. He'd stuck by Sherlock despite his junkyard personality – always covered his tracks for him in the wake of emotional disarray he supposedly left behind him. Sherlock had honestly never considered the possibility that what he might say to people might hurt John, embarrass him. It just hadn't entered his brain. Just like when he'd insulted Diggory.

"Why are people so complicated?" he wondered aloud, and despite his irritation towards the tactless Ravenclaw, Lestrade gave a small smile. Sherlock really looked completely perplexed by the notion that other people found the things he said hurtful. The line between honest and tactless was a deeply shaded blur to him. It barely even existed. Pretty much all of his sympathies lay with John at this moment, but he couldn't help feeling the tiniest bit sorry for Sherlock. He didn't hurt John deliberately. He seemed aghast at the notion – though Lestrade had the feeling he'd feel less bad about it if it were someone other than John.

"They're not that complicated, man," Lestrade said, leaning forward on his elbows. "Just try not to say anything to anyone ever again and you'll be fine."

Before that time in their first year, Sherlock Holmes had never apologised to anyone in his whole life. Back then, it had taken every effort to swallow his pride and do it, and this was even worse. He was starting to feel like the only way he'd be able to say sorry to John would be to grind his teeth and then punch him straight afterwards. Because that's normal.

Sherlock knew the Gryffindors had Potions first thing on a Tuesday, and he had double Transfiguration. The classrooms weren't necessarily near each other, and Professor McGonagall wasn't exactly agreeable to anyone who walked in late to her lessons – but Sherlock had this unwavering certainty that apologising to John was important enough to risk detention. He trekked the long walk down to the dungeons in time to meet the Gryffindors as they trailed down the corridor to Professor Snape's classroom.

"John!" he called as he spotted his friend's blond head amongst the crowd. John glanced round, saw him, and proceeded straight into Snape's classroom. The other Gryffindors looked puzzled at the two friends – everyone knew they were hardly ever separated from each other – and the coldness with which John treated Sherlock was new and interesting. Quite a few of the Slytherins sniggered.

"Lovers' tiff, Sherlock?" Moriarty smirked nastily. He always called Sherlock by his first name when making any snide comment, which set his teeth on edge. He turned and stormed back out of the dungeons. He knew he wasn't stupid, but he hated being made to feel so – especially by John in front of the poxy Slytherins. When he got to class, he let McGonagall's reprimands wash over him without hearing a word, and sat down at his desk with his housemates glaring at him for the ten points she'd docked for his tardiness. He didn't care. He didn't give a damn about any of them. Stupid stuck-up Ravenclaws. What did they know?

He stewed in his anger and irritation for the next two hours, and by the time the bell to signify the beginning of lunch came he was fairly sure a dark cloud was visible above his head. Trying hard to swallow his pride – which was about as easy as swallowing a whole porcupine – he decided to try and intercept John on his way back from Charms. It would be easier if he could get him alone rather than in the Great Hall. He hastened to the fourth floor, and was just turning the corner when he saw something that made him stop – Cedric Diggory waiting outside the classroom. What was he doing here? His question was answered as John stepped through the door and greeted the Hufflepuff with a warm, expectant smile.

"Good lesson?" Diggory asked, and John nodded.

"Thanks for meeting me," John said, tugging his bag strap further up his shoulder and staring up at the taller boy with simpering admiration. Or that's how it looked to Sherlock.

"No problem," Diggory said.

"Are you sure this is okay?" John asked. "Your team won't mind?"

"Course not," Diggory smiled. "There's usually a few from our House watching anyway. Nice to have a little inter-House support."

"Hufflepuff, do your stuff!" John punched the air and Diggory laughed. Sherlock wanted to vomit. Time to put an end to this nice little meeting, he thought, stepping out from around the corner and seeing the smile vanish from John's face. The sudden lack of warmth like what he'd shown Diggory was almost like a chill down Sherlock's spine.

"Sherlock," he said. He stopped walking and so did Diggory.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, more aggressively than he'd intended, his hands balling into fists. "For what I said."

"Right," John nodded slowly, then shrugged. "Thank you."

Sherlock felt a flush of relief – John wasn't still mad at him. Maybe he was just trying to teach him a quick lesson before forgiving him. He smiled and put his hands in his pockets.

"Want to get some food?" he asked.

John glanced up and Diggory, who shrugged and smiled. John shook his head. "No, thanks," he said. "I'm gonna go watch Cedric's team practice."

"Oh," Sherlock said, deflating. "Well, can I—?"

"No," John said again, sharper this time. "Sorry. I'll. . . I'll see you later."

And with that, he marched straight past the astounded Ravenclaw, Diggory following. As the older boy passed Sherlock, he gave him a look that seemed like resentment tinged with sympathy. Sherlock felt a strong desire to curse him – or kick him, whichever would hurt more. Why was he so interested in John all of a sudden? How had they even met? Diggory was one of the most popular students in the school – the Golden Boy of Hufflepuff – so what could he gain from anything friendship with John. John – who was Sherlock's best friend.

Sherlock had never had any cause for jealousy before, and so wasn't quick to recognise it as it thundered through his veins. All he knew was that he was angry, red-faced, and felt like someone had dealt a hefty blow to his stomach. He put it down to dislike of Diggory. But why? Diggory had never done anything to him – never even spoken to him. He doubted he even knew his second name. It must be shame then, embarrassment, at John having put him down so coldly. John. . .

Sherlock felt a jolt in the region of his chest and pressed his palm against it, his brow furrowed in confusion. What was this? He'd never felt it before. It was like an icy hand had clenched over his heart – aching but still thumping faster than before. He didn't like it. His over-stimulated brain started working overtime – running through a list if every wizarding and Muggle condition that might cause a person's chest to constrict.

"Well," a snide voice said. "Isn't this precious?"

Moriarty was leaning against the wall opposite Sherlock – he hadn't even heard him arrive. He had his hands in the pockets of his Slytherin robes and a malicious smirk plastered over his face.

"What do you want?" Sherlock spat, trying to regain his composure. To his surprise, seeing Moriarty loosened the tight knot in his chest, replaced only with simmering dislike. That he could identify.

"Now, now, Sherlock – just wanted to see how things were with your little friend," Moriarty said innocently. The over-enunciation in his Irish accent sent a jolt of annoyance through Sherlock and he turned to leave.

"Don't be so quick to run away now, Sherly-boy," the Slytherin said. "I quite fancied a chat with you."

"Sorry to disappoint," Sherlock said coldly. "If you'll excuse me—"

He was cut short by a large chunk of the stone wall beside him exploding, covering him in grey dust. Moriarty concealed his wand back inside his robes and sauntered towards Sherlock, who found himself stood still in surprise.

"Don't you want to know what's going on?" Moriarty asked in low voice. Sherlock looked down at him – the Slytherin was a good head shorter than himself – and saw a excitable spark glittering in his brown eyes. He wasn't sure if he was more reminded of childish thrill or the unhinged erraticness of a psychopath. Maybe both.

"Going on with what?" he asked.

"Why, you and your ickle fwend," Moriarty said in a mock baby voice. "You've created a bit of an atmosphere between yourselves, haven't you?"

"No business of yours," said Sherlock trying to move away but finding his path barred by Moriarty's arm slamming against the wall. He gave a breathless laugh that suggested disbelief at Sherlock's manners and wagged a finger in his face.

"Not very polite, are you, Mr. Wit?" he said. "Not too bright either," he added, and drilled the tip of his finger into Sherlock's cheek. A nerve pulsed in the Ravenclaw's temple and he calmly withdrew his wand from the pocket inside his robes.

"If you don't get out of my way," he said, "I'm going to curse you."

"Ooo~ooh!" Moriarty sang – this guy really was insane, Sherlock thought – and backed away with his hands in the air. "Please spare me, O great sorcerer!"

Sherlock strolled briskly past and was halfway down the staircase when Moriarty's voice found him again.

"Don't let your feelings run away with you, Sherlock," he said from the top of the stairs, all trace of frivolity gone. "You might not be the only one who gets hurt."

With that, he turned on his heel and skipped off down the Charms corridor.

"Freak," Sherlock muttered, continuing down. He had never let his feelings run away with him – he didn't really have enough to do so. His emotional smorgasbord mainly consisted of curiosity, amusement, boredom, exhilaration and, more recently, anger – nothing else. Not until his chance meeting with John had he started taking an interest in people. Before that they'd just been passers-by – reproductive machines running on blood and emotions – only catching his eye when they messed up. Not now. Now he'd managed to hone his craft of deducing facts from even the slightest details and deriving pleasure from it – to see the varying looks of amazement and confusion on the people whose secrets he'd brought to light. The look of fascination and admiration on John's face had made his ego soar, not doing much for his humility but sending his confidence sky high. Before they met he hardly spoke to anyone. He didn't want to. Didn't need to. He. . . he didn't know how to. And how had he returned the favour? By embarrassing John, antagonising him, ripping his closest-guarded secret from him and setting it ablaze right before his eyes. What sort of a friend did that make him?

Sherlock shook his head and tried to set his line of thought straight. Eccentric and slightly mad as Moriarty seemed to be, perhaps he had a small point. No good ever came out of letting emotions run one's life. Caring was most definitely not an advantage. The more you had, the more you had to lose. Hadn't he heard that somewhere before?

Still, it didn't stop the thought of John laughing and joking with Diggory making him want to curse the nearest statue into rubble.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooo

One thing was for certain, John thought as he watched the yellow-clad Quidditch players zoom about the pitch, Cedric was one hell of a flyer. The way he moved, it was amazing, like a giant bird of prey. As good as any league player. What are you talking about, John? he asked himself. You couldn't name one league player. He shook his head and smirked in amusement at himself. The unexpected and not all that pleasant run-in with Sherlock had left him feeling jumbled up. After he and Cedric had left him standing alone in the corridor, he'd felt really bad to brushing him aside to carelessly, and had almost wanted to turn back. Cedric had asked him if he wanted to, but he'd said no. What other chance would he get to hang out with Cedric like this? Cedric actually seemed to like him – if not as a potential boyfriend, then as a friend, despite being three years older.

Still, the look on Sherlock's face. . .

No, he scolded himself, stop thinking about him.

By the time the team had finished their practice, a chilly breeze had swept through the stands and John was starting to feel hungry. He followed the rest of Hufflepuff viewers down the rickety staircase and hurried over to Cedric as he landed on the grass. He looked pleased and heartily congratulated his team as they moved towards the changing rooms.

"How were we?" he asked John as the Gryffindor caught up with him.

"Great!" John grinned. Cedric struck quite an impressive silhouette – tall, broad shoulders, hair windswept, broomstick slung over his shoulder. For a brief moment he wondered what Sherlock would look like in Quidditch robes – the Ravenclaw blue would really bring out the colour in his eyes. . .

Oh, shut up, he forced himself to halt any such thoughts and waited outside the changing rooms while Cedric showered and emerged in his normal robes, his dark hair slightly damp.

"Are you okay?" he asked John as they followed the team back up to the castle. John's stomach was rumbling – he hoped they'd still be serving lunch, it had only been half an hour – and he nodded absentmindedly. Then he felt Cedric's hand on his shoulder. "Do you want to go find him?" he asked.

"No," John insisted. "I can't let him get away with it that easily."

Cedric laughed softly. "He did sound genuinely sorry," he said. "I think he's learned something from this. And now, you know that if it happens again, you're strong enough to walk away."

John looked up at the gently smiling Hufflepuff. What was he, some kind of Oracle? A robot programmed to always say the right thing? Whatever he was, John considered it nothing short of a miracle to have befriended him.

"C'mon," Cedric said, patting him on the shoulder as they walked through the great oak doors. "Let's go find Sherlock."