Friday morning Sherlock woke up to a cold sunlight pouring into the dormitory. There were no birds chirping outside-it was far too cold for even them. December was in only a few days, but everyone was already anticipating spring. It had been a chilly autumn, and the weather was only going to be getting colder.
As he rolled out of bed and ruffled his hair into what he hoped was a neat arrangement, anxiety grabbed his guts in a fist-tonight, the Goblet of Fire would announce the champions from each school. Sherlock would have no problem not being a champion-he was more worried about being chosen. John seemed confident that if one of them was selected, the other would be too, but Sherlock had his doubts. Sure, they matched up well, and balanced each other out, but there were other people like John-Sherlock didn't necessarily enjoy admitting it, but the boy was rather…well, ordinary.
If the two of them were chosen, Sherlock would be completely okay with it. But if it was any other person at all, Sherlock was pretty much screwed-and once you'd been chosen there was no going back.
Stop worrying about nothing, he chided himself. You probably won't even get chosen-you'd be impossible to match with anyone. What makes you so special that you think that Goblet will pick your name and then find a suitable partner? It'll choose the names together, and you're nothing special. You're not important. So quit worrying and focus on your classes.
He rapidly changed out of his pajamas, threw on his robe, grabbed his bag, and left the dormitory as his classmates were just beginning to waken.
He was one of the first people in the great hall for breakfast, so he took his time munching on some eggs and bacon until John arrived, late as usual.
"Looking forward to this evening?" John asked him, hurriedly pouring himself a glass of pumpkin juice.
"Not particularly. I still can't believe I let you talk me into this." He picked up a copy of The Daily Prophet that someone had forgotten on the table, and scanned the front page. "Wonderful. More disappearances."
"Well what do you expect? We're not exactly winning this war."
"I know, but still. You'd think these people would be able to protect themselves," Sherlock commented casually. "They're fully grown wizards and witches."
"Yeah, but this is You-Know-Who, sorry Sherlock, but I'm pretty sure even you'd bite the dust-I reckon you'd put up one hell of a fight though."
"I know, but they need to be better about hiding themselves. Choose better Secret-Keepers. Or get some. I bet half of these people don't even know it's an option. And those who do choose those they foolishly believe they can trust. You can't trust anyone."
"You're in a bloody cheery mood today."
"I'm just…tired, I guess. Let's go, we have Transfiguration in…," he glanced quickly at John's watch. "Ten minutes."
Folding up the paper, he shoved it into his bag and exited the hall, leaving a behind a piece of half-eaten toast.
Evening came far before Sherlock was ready for it. The great hall was overflowing with excited chattering from the Hogwarts students, while those from Durmstrang sat in silence, scanning those around them like wolves stalking prey.
Sherlock followed John to the Gryffindor table, not really paying attention to anything at all, other than trying not to have a nervous breakdown. Don't be an idiot, you're not going to be chosen, he reminded himself sharply. And if you are, John will be with you. Although he knew this wasn't necessarily true, he let himself believe it because it was the only thing keeping him calm at the moment.
John, for the first time, also seemed nervous; he was tapping his foot very quickly on the ground, and kept glancing around the room as if waiting for something to happen.
An eternity seemed to pass by the time Dumbledore rose to his feet and revealed the Goblet at the front of the hall (it must have been moved sometime during the day), but it also seemed like they had been sitting there for only a few seconds.
Dumbledore cleared his throat, but there was no need-a deadly silence had already fallen over the entire hall.
"Welcome, welcome," he began. "I know you have all been waiting for this moment ever since you first heard of the tournament, so I will not make you wait any longer by ranting on and on. We shall now see which four students the Goblet of Fire has chosen to be the champions of The Inter-School Tournament. Once your name has been called, I ask you to please wait in the trophy room, where you shall receive a small bit of information regarding the first task, which will take place on the first Saturday of January."
The entire room waited with bated breath-even the teachers seemed to be on the edges of their seats as the fire in the Goblet began to flicker red.
After a few second, a single, torn, piece of paper flew out of the flames and landed in Dumbledore's outstretched hand. Again, he cleared his throat, and again there was no need to. "The first Durmstrang champion-James Moriarty!"
The hall erupted in applause-even the Hogwarts students were cheering audibly. "Sherlock, it's him, it's that boy," John whispered in his ear, but he needn't have done so; Sherlock had recognized him the moment he rose from his seat. He watched as Moriarty took the piece of parchment from Dumbledore and disappeared into the Trophy room at the front of the hall.
As the Goblet again flamed red, silence retook its hold on the hall. Again, Dumbledore caught a small piece of parchment nearly identical to the first. "The second Durmstrang champion-Irene Adler!"
And again, Sherlock recognized the champion-it was the brown-haired girl that had been with Moriarty when everyone had entered their names in the trophy room.
The Hogwarts students fell quiet very quickly-this is what they had been waiting for. Two of them, of their friends, would have a chance and glory and riches beyond their dreams.
The Goblet seemed to take a bit longer this time, or maybe it was just Sherlock's imagination. But soon enough, a piece of parchment shot out, and Sherlock felt his stomach twist even tighter than before. He thought he recognized that tear in the paper….but no, how could he tell from that distance? Lots of people had haphazardly ripped off pieces of parchment…
"The first Hogwarts champion is…" he paused a moment, and regarded the students over his half-moon spectacles. "Sherlock Holmes!"
Sherlock thought he was going to be sick right there-as he rose from his seat in a trance, he couldn't bear to hear the hesitant applause that was scattered throughout the hall, couldn't bear to see John's delighted face, couldn't bear to look up at the staff table and see Nevamann watching him, as he knew he would be. Before Sherlock had even fully registered what he was doing, he had his paper in his hand and was in the dimly lit trophy room, where the other two champions were watching him closely.
He didn't speak to them, barely even looked at them, but turned around and stood near the door, so he could listen to John's name be called out-surely it would be John, who else could it possibly be? He hated everyone else in the bloody school; there was no other person he could possibly be partnered with.
And the answer nearly slapped him in the face, only a second before Dumbledore's voice rang out with the words, "Jack Collins!"
"So what did they tell you about the first task?" John asked him cautiously, as they sat down at a table in the library to do their Charms homework.
"It was pretty useless really," Sherlock admitted, ruffling his hair. "They just said that it's designed to test our courage, and that we should read up on magical creatures-particularly more dangerous ones."
John blanched. "You don't think it'll be dragons do you?"
"Pft, don't be ridiculous. I mean, sure that's a possibility, but they've done that before-it's likely to be something new."
"They've done that before?!"
Sherlock looked at him, surprised. "Of course. They've also used…let's see…hypogriffs, boggarts, thestrals…they've used a lot. Who knows what it'll be this year?"
"And how are you about the whole…Collins thing? I mean, have you talked to him? This is partially based on teamwork, don't you think that you two should be talking about this? Studying together? Practicing spells together? Have you even spoken to him since you got chosen?
"No. It's only been a day."
"Well are you going to?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"Sherlock."
"What? Why does it have to be me? He could come and talk to me if he wanted to."
John shook his head and closed his textbook. "You're hopeless."
Sherlock was not surprised to see that the attitudes of the other students towards him had changed only slightly. Most still completely disregarded him (Collins, a much more likeable person, seemed to be getting most of the attention-Sherlock was completely fine with that), but others would be more polite to him than usual, and occasional exchange a few words. A few Ravenclaw students had even congratulated him, something that would have made Sherlock laugh if he weren't so exasperated. Oh, Sherlock, heard you got selected for a highly dangerous tournament where you'll probably either die or go insane-CONGRATULATIONS.
The first and second years, however, did seem to hold him in awe, particularly the Ravenclaws. They didn't know much about him at this point, and seemed to think that all of the champions were heroes of some sort, role models that they should be looking up to. This irked Sherlock quite a bit, but luckily none of them were bold enough to approach him-they should stood nearby and stared, while whispering amongst themselves.
"You're going to have a fan club pretty soon," John told him, amused, after a first year girl had walked up to Sherlock, blushed, and run away down the corridor.
"Oh, shut it. Anyways, aren't you at all disappointed that you didn't get chosen? You were really excited about this."
John shrugged, as they left the great hall after dinner that Saturday-John had spent the whole day in the library, and Sherlock in the room of requirement, so they hadn't had a chance to talk previously. "Only a bit. I would have been thrilled to get in, but I'm not devastated that I didn't get chosen, you know?"
Sherlock just half-smiled and said, "I'd trade places with you any time."
"Okay. But we need to talk. Like, for a while."
"Well it's getting late? Room of requirement?" Sherlock suggested.
"Nah…let's go to the Gryffindor common room."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Am I allowed in there?"
"If you're with me no one will really care. The first years might stare, but no more than they have been. Actually, considering your current fame I'm sure they'll be happy to have you."
Sherlock snorted. "fame. Whatever, as long as you're sure they won't jinx me."
"They're bloody Gryffindors. I can promise you nothing."
So after about ten exhausting minutes of climbing stairs, Sherlock found himself standing outside the portrait of the Fat Lady that he had passed countless times-he had been aware that the Gryffindor dormitories were concealed behind it, but it was still surprising to him when John said the password and the portrait swung open.
Ducked through the opening after John, and blinked at all the crimson that came forward to meet his eyes. He was so used to the blues of the Ravenclaw common room that the reds and golds of this room came as quite a shock to his eyes-and they were only accentuated by the roaring fire.
The ceiling was lower, the windows smaller, the room in general stuffier, noisier, and more crowded, and quite frankly-
"I don't like it," Sherlock said, not exactly quietly.
A couple heads turned around to look in his direction, but for the most part, he was ignored.
John rolled his eyes and led Sherlock over to one of the empty couches.
"No one seems particularly surprised I'm here," Sherlock observed.
"They're used to it."
"John Watson, how many boys have you brought home besides me?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow grinning.
"Oh, shut up. I just mean that there's a lot of inter-house dating when it comes to Gryffindors."
Sherlock raised both his eyebrows.
"Shut up. But anyways, we need to talk."
"What about?"
"What do you think, idiot? Maybe the tournament? Don't you have preparing to do?"
"I practiced all today. Besides, I'm well-prepared."
John made a strangled coughing noise that highly resembled "Collins".
"I'm not worried about that right now. There're still ages before the first task, after all."
"Um, not really. And speaking of Collins…Sherlock, are you ever going to tell me about what happened there? I mean, I know it's a touchy subject, but Christ, I would've thought you'd've at least told me by now."
"Of course I'll tell you…it's just…now's not the time."
"Before the first task. Okay?"
Distressed, the boy ran a hand through his dark curls and sighed. "Okay."
By the time Sherlock had said goodbye to John that night, it was exceedingly late, and he was grateful for the short walk between the two common rooms.
He disregarded the Ravenclaws that tried to catch his eye and made a beeline for his dormitory, where he nestled into his blankets, drew the curtains around his four-poster, and feel into an uneasy sleep filled with nightmares and scenes from the past-but then again, there wasn't much of a difference.