Potterlock – The Prisoner of Azkaban

Author's Note: Et voila! Okay, so weirdly enough, though this was the book I was convinced would be the hardest to translate into Potterlock, turns out I'm gonna have to do a couple more chapters. So many feelings to convey! Am currently also concocting a couple of Supernatural (OH! THE DESTIEL FEELS!) and Merlin fics (season five – yay, more Merthur!).

So, in the past couple of months, I've spent about £500 on my new car, £150 on two new guinea-pigs – named Misha (after the lovely Misha Collins) and Elphie (after Wicked, which I'm seeing for the second time on Saturday – woot!), and possibly much more on therapy after season six of Supernatural. Can't wait for season seven!

Well, my little Potterlings, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I promise to try harder and get the next one up soon. Please review, as your thoughts and comments really speed my creativity along! Enjoy!

Chapter Five

It had been two weeks since John and Sherlock's little skirmish, and things were finally starting to simmer down. Although it obviously went against everything he was used to, Sherlock had delivered a reasonable apology, and John was temporarily pacified. It was strange feeling though, this new sensation of power he seemed to gained over his best friend. Up 'til now, Sherlock had held all the cards – he was smarter, cooler, and John was nearly always willing to comply with anything he wanted to do. It was different now – just that one little fight had tipped the scale somewhat, and John almost felt he was the one with the winning hand. Sherlock had been acting a little out-of-sorts since they'd reconciled – he seemed to be, if it were possible, thinking of someone other than himself. He asked John what he wanted to do, how his day had gone, and John thought he knew why. The fact that John had found an unlikely alliance with Cedric unnerved the Ravenclaw, possibly intimidated him. He knew now that John wasn't beneath choosing Cedric's company over Sherlock's, when he wasn't surrounded by his hoard of Hufflepuff followers, that there were some things he could talk about with the older boy that Sherlock simply didn't understand.

And Sherlock did not like it. That was the stone-cold truth that gave John that strange sense of power – Sherlock didn't like John hanging out with Cedric. He didn't like John's attention being diverted from anyone other than himself – anyone he considered a genuine contender, anyway. Molly and Lestrade didn't bother him – they were harmless enough, just faces in the crowd in the Ravenclaw's eyes – but Cedric did. He was smart – almost enough to rival Sherlock's intellect – and John looked up to him. Sherlock seemed to appreciate him more now because of it, and while John was exasperated it had taken this kind of revelation for it to happen, he was grateful.

Still, in truth, he didn't enjoy the placement he now had in their friendship as much as he probably should have done. It was nice not to be treated as quite so much of a doormat now, but he had the feeling Sherlock was trying a little too hard to keep his attention. He'd started deducing things about passers-by at random, whether they wanted it or not, which was doing absolutely nothing for his growing reputation as a 'weirdo'. Some of the younger girls still seemed impressed by these feats, but John hears whispers following Sherlock in the corridors, plus some choice nicknames he was sure Sherlock wouldn't appreciate. Yet he didn't think it was them Sherlock was trying to impress. Every time he identified something ridiculously obscure about a person, his gaze would fall to John, who then felt obliged to nod and smile and congratulate him. It was like pacifying a seven year old.

So it was no wonder really that he sought out Cedric's company. It was always a little nerve-wracking – trying to seem cool and funny, while at the same time not reveal his desires for the Hufflepuff to pin him against a wall and. . . well, yeah. His newfound friendship with the Quidditch Captain certainly hadn't done any harm to his previously non-existent reputation. Some of Cedric's friends even greeted him in the corridor, and he seemed to have become more appealing to girls in Cedric's shadow. His own attraction to Cedric hadn't given any signs of decreasing. The more he got to know him, the more he liked him. He was the epitome of a Nice Guy, except he had the looks to polish it off as well. It was almost unfair – John knew many boys bore jealous grudges against Cedric as girls they liked ignored their fruitless chat-up attempts in favour of batting their eyelashes at Cedric as he passed.

It was close to nine o'clock on Wednesday night, and John was sitting by the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room with Sherlock, adding some final notes to his Defence essay, due in tomorrow. They were still working on boggarts, and Professor Lupin had promised to try and find another so those who'd missed out on challenging it could have a practice if they wanted.

"You gonna have a shot at it tomorrow, then?" John asked Sherlock, who'd been mumbling to himself for over fifteen minutes, sending wisps of silver vapour across the room from the end of his wand. Defence was the only class the Gryffindors shared with the Ravenclaws, and he was interested to see what form Sherlock's boggart would take.

"Yes," Sherlock tossed his wand aside and pulled his knees up under his chin, his eyes resting on the fireplace. "You?"

"Nah," John said, adding the final word to his essay and signing his name at the top. He certainly didn't want everyone knowing what he was most scared of. "Finally," he grinned in satisfaction. "And two inches over what Lupin asked for."

"Congratulations," Sherlock yawned, resting his head against the wing of his armchair. He looked tired, and John felt a rush of warm affection for his friend, combined with that flame he still held for him. The time he spent with Cedric had certainly softened the fierce, sometimes agonising, feelings John had for the Ravenclaw, but had not eradicated them entirely. Was it possible to love two people at the same time? No, John didn't love Cedric – he was immensely attracted to him and John was sure that, were Sherlock not still in the picture, his feelings could easily evolve into love – but what he felt for Sherlock was something different. It was burned into his very core – a part of him. That was love. It still hurt sometimes, but he now had that gentle warmth in Cedric to cushion the blow.

The clock struck eight forty-five and Sherlock stretched his long legs. In light of the whole Sirius Black situation, all students were now required to be back in their Houses by nine o'clock sharp, without exception.

"You off?" John asked as his friend rose to his feet.

"Yeah," Sherlock nodded, running a hand through his unruly hair. "See you tomorrow."

John stared after him as he crossed the room and left through the portrait hole, glancing over his shoulder once to smile goodnight. The catch clicked shut and John laid his forehead down on his completed essay. In what world could he ever say he was over Sherlock? It would be like saying he was over oxygen. In truth, he couldn't even say exactly what it was about the Ravenclaw that tormented him so much – yes, he was handsome, but it was so much more than that. It wasn't even his intelligence, the effortless way he could deduce from the barest of glances at the smallest details. That was impressive, yes, but he'd admired that before he'd realised his true feelings. Thinking back, he guessed the first moment he'd felt that jump was when they were by the lake, and Sherlock confessed that John was his first and only friend. That small moment of vulnerability, that brief glimpse into the truth that Sherlock Holmes was human after all. That's what it was. It could almost be called sweet.

"You're out of your depth, Watson," he laughed hollowly. Then, rolling up his essay and shouldering his bag, he headed up the stairs to the dormitory.

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There was an element of excitement and apprehension in the air as the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw third years lined up outside the Defence classroom. Most of those who were planning on tackling the boggart were muttering the incantation under their breaths, and some had their faces screwed up in concentration, thinking of ways to counteract their worst fears. Sherlock, however, looked perfectly at ease.

"What are you even scared of?" John asked him as they filed into the classroom and took their seats.

"Nothing," Sherlock smirked. "Should make for an interesting exercise."

"Everyone's scared of something."

"Nope."

"Right. Maybe it'll just explode when it looks at you."

The door opened and Professor Lupin entered, levitating a large, dusty packing case through the air in front of him. As he passed their desk, John heard Sherlock do a very quiet impression of a howling wolf, and nudged him hard. After their very first Defence lesson, Sherlock had revealed his deductions to John that Professor Lupin was, in fact, a werewolf.

"Painfully obvious, isn't it?" he'd said. "His scruffy appearance, for one – it's not exactly the most desirable thing a potential employer wants to see on a CV, is it? Then the screaming fact that the boggart turned into the full moon in front of him. I mean, seriously, how could everyone not see that?"

This didn't change John's opinion of Professor Lupin at all – he was the best Defence teacher they'd had and he knew Dumbledore would never have purposefully allowed any of them to fall under any kind of danger – but he was pretty sure not everyone would see it that way, so he'd persuaded Sherlock not to go blabbing to anyone else about it. If the likes of Malfoy got wind of it, he'd no doubt go running to Daddy Dearest and poor Professor Lupin would be out of a job in less than five minutes.

"Good afternoon," said Lupin pleasantly, patting the lid of the case he'd set down beside his desk. "As promised, I've managed to procure another boggart for those who'd like a crack at it – might be useful for your end-of-year exam. Those of you who would like to challenge it, raise your hand."

Seven or eight people – including Sherlock, Molly and Hermione – extended their arms.

"Excellent," Lupin said. "If everyone else would kind gather to one side of the room, I'll clear the decks."

John shuffled with the group to stand by the line of tall windows, while Sherlock joined the line in the centre of the room. Lupin waved his wand, sending the desks sliding in an orderly fashion to the other side of the room, and knelt down by the side of the case.

"Is everyone ready?" he asked.

There was a murmur of assent and Padma Patil stepped forward to challenge the boggart first. Lupin threw open the lid of the case. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, a dead-looking hand curled its finger over the edge of the box. John saw Padma freeze as something large, wet and bloated crawled onto the floor, closer to where she stood paralysed by fear. It was a decaying human corpse – drowned – with long dark hair, dripping water in large pools around it. Through the curtains covering its face, wide, bulging eyeballs stared unblinkingly up at Padma.

"R-riddikulus!" she squeaked, and the corpse slipped on the boards – now wrapped in a pink fluffy towel, it's lank hair held up by a floral shower-cap.

"Very good!" Lupin chuckled.

Terry Boot stepped forward, and the boggart switched forms to become a sallow-skinned vampire, yellow fangs dripping blood, which he turned into chattering clockwork teeth, causing the vampire to vibrate as Molly stepped forward. The boggart then became an enormous black rat with long claws, making her shriek, before gathering her wits and turning it into a squeaky rubber mouse.

Then it was Sherlock's turn. He stepped forward, smugly confident, and drew his wand out from inside his robes. The boggart looked at him for a moment, then transformed. At first, John was confused – for it had taken the form of Sherlock himself, crouched in the same position that the corpse had been. Then, he realised – the boggart-Sherlock was rocking violently, backwards and forwards, its hands pressed against the sides of its head. Its eyes were wild and bloodshot, its mouth gaping open, spittle running down its chin, a look of uncontrolled, insane panic etched into every detail of its face.

This was Sherlock's greatest fear – himself, having completely lost his mind.

John waited for the real Sherlock to raise his wand, to say the incantation and banish the apparition. But he didn't. He stood there, frozen, as Padma had been – completely paralyzed by fear. He must have known it wasn't real, but seemed completely incapable of defending himself. His face was a mask of terror, shock and, to an extent, horrified fascination. Like watching a car-crash.

John heard some of the other Ravenclaws laugh nervously. Sherlock didn't seem to hear them, but John couldn't stand to see him be humiliated. Lupin moved to come to Sherlock's aid, but John got there first. He took three sharp strides and placed himself firmly between his friend and the infernal shape-shifter. The boggart-Sherlock leered manically up at him, then – to John's surprise – stood up, regaining the cool composure he associated with the real-life genius.

"You're disgusting," the boggart spat, in a perfect replica of Sherlock's voice. John knew it wasn't real, but to hear those words from Sherlock's mouth made him flinch nonetheless. He didn't have time to react – he hadn't prepared any kind of defence.

"Pathetic little queer," the boggart sneered, its handsome features twisted in hatred. John felt like someone had tipped a bucket of iced water over his head. He could hear his classmates muttering, and forced himself to stay focused. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out his wand and said loudly, "Riddikulus!"

The boggart-Sherlock's hands flew to its lips, now covered with a wide strip of gaffer tape, and John pulled Sherlock aside to let Hermione tackle it. Sherlock pulled himself from John's grip and stalked from the room, pausing only to pick up his bag.

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After Sherlock's exit, Professor Lupin wrapped up the practical exercise fairly quickly, setting them to taking notes from the textbook after Kevin Entwhistle of Ravenclaw finally banished the boggart. John could sense people looking at him, but kept his eyes fixed firmly on the page in front of him. Anyone who didn't know Sherlock as he did might have thought him heartless for not going after him – but John knew Sherlock would want some time alone, to nurse his bruised dignity in peace.

When the end-of-lesson bell went, nobody was surprised when Professor Lupin asked John to stay behind. He'd been expecting it, really. Molly said she'd wait for him outside the classroom and closed the door, leaving John and Lupin alone.

"Are you alright, John?" Lupin asked.

"Yes, sir," John said.

"I'm sorry things panned out like that," Lupin said, sitting down behind his desk and observing John with light brown eyes.

"Not your fault, sir," he shrugged. "Sorry Sherlock ran out."

"I imagine he's not used to being shown up like that."

"Too right," John snorted. "He's too cocky."

Lupin smiled a little sadly. "I once a friend like that – thought he held the world in the palm of his hand." He leaned back in his chair. "Well, I just wanted to check you were alright, and to apologise if the exercise has caused any inconvenience for you."

John knew he was referring to the boggart-Sherlock outing him in front of the whole class. Weirdly enough, he didn't feel as scared or humiliated as he'd thought he would. I suppose it helped that everyone had still been distracted by Sherlock's impression of a rabbit caught in headlights, though he was still thanking his lucky stars that they shared the class with the Ravenclaws rather than the Slytherins. At least this way it might take a little longer for the word to spread, give him time to prepare for the oncoming teasing that was sure to ensue once the likes of Malfoy and Moriarty got wind of it. It was only when he thought of what Cedric might say if he heard that a bubble of panic started to rise in his chest. He was sure – very nearly sure – that Cedric wouldn't hold it against him were he to discover the truth. As long as he didn't find out just how John felt about him – that was the clincher.

"Also," Lupin continued, "you know that if ever you need to talk to someone, about anything, I'll always be here to listen and help if I can."

John was touched. Professor Lupin really was a very nice man – nicer than most of the teachers they had at Hogwarts. He had the sort of calm, mellow demeanour that made John think he really could come to him with a problem.

"Thanks, sir," he smiled. "But really, I'm fine. Though I'd better go find Sherlock now."

"Of course," Lupin said, gathering the scrolls of homework they'd placed on his desk and smiling at John. "Bye, John."

"Bye, sir," John replied, shifting his bag-strap further up his shoulder and exiting the room. Molly was still waiting for him, perched on the low pedestal of a statue of Oswalf the Outrageous outside the classroom.

"Everything alright?" she asked.

"Yeah – just wanted to ask if Sherlock was okay," John shrugged.

There was a small silence as they made their way down the corridor. It was nearing dinnertime, and so they had to dump their books in their dormitories before heading down to the Great Hall.

"Is it true?" Molly asked tentatively as they climbed one of the rotating staircases.

"Is what true?" John said, though he knew perfectly well what she meant.

"You," she said. "Are you. . . you know. . . what the boggart said?"

John paused, checking there weren't any lurking Slytherins to be had nearby. The only person was a second-year Ravenclaw girl with long blonde hair humming to herself a few steps below them. She didn't look all that interested in their conversation so John said, "Yeah."

Molly raised her eyebrows and breathed out deeply. "Wow."

"Yeah," John laughed dryly.

"It's. . . wow. Does Sherlock know?"

"Moll, of course he knows. He's Sherlock Holmes. He even figured out who. . ." he looked over his shoulder again. The blonde girl was batting at something invisible around her head. John frowned, shook his head, and continued quietly. "He figured out who I fancy."

"Ooh, who?"

"You've got to promise you won't tell anyone."

Molly crossed her heart, her face full of eager curiosity, though when John told her, she didn't look all that surprised.

"Well, who doesn't fancy Cedric?" she said as they approached the Common Room. "At least it's not some horrible Slytherin. Like Moriarty," she shuddered. "He's vile. Flibbertigibbet." They dispensed of their bags and headed back down to the Great Hall with Dean and Seamus in tow.

"Save me a seat," John said to Molly when they reached the tall doors, the tantalising smell of food wafting through. "I've got to find Sherlock."

"D'you want me to help?"

"Nah, I know where he'll be."

The sky outside was already growing dark, and a light breeze rustled the leaves in the Forbidden Forest. He passed a couple of seventh-years on his way to the lake, who were still wrestling their copies of The Monster Book of Monsters back into their bags, as they were firmly refusing to be stroked into submission.

John could already see Sherlock's dark, curly-haired figure sitting beneath the tree they frequented by the lake, his knees pulled up, arms-folded, his mouth and nose buried in the crook of his elbow. John felt a pang of pity for him – he looked so sad. As he approached, Sherlock glanced up, turning away from John as he sat down beside him.

"You know," John said, "we seem to have most of our most in-depth conversations here. Emotional spot, clearly."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but John felt his stiff frame ease up slightly.

"It's okay," he said. "People were weirded out much more by mine." He tried to sound flippant, but his heart gave an extra hard thump at the memory of the contempt on the boggart-Sherlock's face when it had viciously outed him.

There was a moment of silence, and then Sherlock blurted out, "I don't care what they think!"

"Sherlock, it's fine—"

"No, it's not!" John quickly recognised the loud, defensive tone which meant Sherlock was trying to convey his feelings – something he usually avoided like a swarm of Cornish pixies. "It was stupid! Weak! Even Longbottom could do it!"

"We've all got our weaknesses, Sherlock," John said.

Don't we just, he thought, his heart warming at his friend's look of tortured sensitivity.

"Well, I don't!" Sherlock snapped. "Mycroft doesn't. Nor do I."

"You don't have to be perfect. That's impossible."

Sherlock snorted. "For you, maybe."

John rolled his eyes. "Look, Sherlock, I know you're upset, but just think – my boggart just outed me in front of the whole class. If anyone should be having a nervous breakdown, it's me. And am I? No."

Not on the outside, anyway.

"But I don't think any less of you for that!"

John's heart skipped. "You don't?"

"Of course not – it doesn't matter. It's fine."

John was a little stunned. Sherlock was always so logical, he'd always assumed he'd have at least something to say about John's out-of-the-ordinary sexuality.

"Wow," he said. "Well. . . thank you. You know, I don't think any less of you, right?"

Sherlock turned to look at him, his sharp eyes narrowed. "You don't?" he said, echoing John's surprised reaction.

"Of course not," John mirrored. Then, smiling, "It doesn't matter. It's fine. Really."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then averted his gaze back across the lake. John wanted to reach out to him so badly – hug him, hold his hand, even just put his arm around his shoulders. Sherlock didn't care what anyone else thought of him – only that John still hold him in the same regard. John was touched. Sherlock may no longer be way up on a pedestal – he was too annoying for that – but he still looked up to him. As a friend, a leader – and so much more than that.

John couldn't help himself. He looked around, checking there wasn't anyone nearby. Then, taking a deep breath, he shuffled a little closer to Sherlock and lowered his head onto the Ravenclaw's shoulder. He felt Sherlock stiffen, but didn't sit back up. He wanted Sherlock to know how much he still cared for and admired him. He needed him to know. Then, slowly, miraculously, Sherlock reached out and put his arm around John, his long fingers curling round his shoulder.

"Thank you," he said.