Chapter Nine

Say Something

"Dull and boring" was Sherlock's explanation of Herbology, but then again you could never trust the Ravenclaw with an opinion. John and Lestrade met up with him outside the Great Hall, slouched up against the stone wall with one knee bent and parallel to the floor. He was picking at the Ravenclaw patch sewn to the front of his robes and his tie was flung around his neck.

John was in fact the best dressed of the three. Lestrade had the bottom of his white shirt hanging out from under his grey, red, and gold Gryffindor sweater, and he didn't even have his tie on. John had his tie tucked neatly under the collar of his shirt, which he had to adjust multiple times that day so it wasn't too tight, and his sweater was pulled down all the way to cover his white shirt. All three boys had unhooked the top of their robes, letting them flow freely on either side of their bodies. They all had some sort of weird habit of dressing with their uniforms; Sherlock and his tie, Greg and his shirt, and John tended to roll up his shirt sleeves even when they were under his robes.

"Oh no, wait till you have History of Magic," John corrected as they strolled into the hall for lunch. Lestrade was distractingly swaggering in between the two best friends, making it hard for them to come in contact with one another. They slowed down their paces a bit so the larger Gryffindor could show off in front of them as they lagged behind.

"Why?" Sherlock asked John, cocking an eyebrow.

"Teacher is terrible. He made us read from our textbook, nothing else. You probably wouldn't believe this, but Lestrade fell asleep about fifteen minutes into class."

"Hmm," Sherlock sighed, not surprised in the slightest. He cut in between two Slytherin sisters, making them sneer at him behind his back. "Don't," Sherlock shrugged off, feeling John's temper rise.

"Why not? Why shouldn't I do something about it?" He glanced over his shoulder, glaring at the back of the girls' heads.

"Because there's no need to. You're getting worked up over something stupid, John…"

"Sherlock!" John stopped him in the middle of the aisle, grabbing his upper left arm securely and staring hard into his eyes. "I'm not going to let some random jerk hurt you. Because…I care about you." Sherlock stood still as a statue, noting the seriousness in his friend's voice. He flinched at the sharp pain in his muscles and gave John a look, indicating for him to let go.

"Sorry…" the Gryffindor mumbled, and began walking away ashamed. His cheeks turned bright red as he shoved his hands in his pants' pockets.

Sherlock's eyes became sad. What is John playing at? he thought. "John?"

"Come on," came the stern voice ten feet away. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but decided it was best to stay away from John's bad side.

"Hey!" he yelled over the sounds of students chatting all around. Nobody ignored their own conversations to stare at the two boys. "John, I'm sorry…" The shorter boy stopped in his path and turned around to face the Ravenclaw again. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Are you really?" John placed his hands on his hips, giving his friend a look and adding some sass to his movement.

"I am. I just…didn't know that you cared so much." Sherlock stared at the floor, hiding his hands behind his back. He heard Watson heave a deep sigh, and when he garnered up the courage to raise his head to face the bolder yet smaller boy he did so. John's face was barely two feet from his own and his expression molded from annoyed to forgiving in a few flat seconds.

"Of course I care," John whispered. His puppy dog eyes; how are they real? He repeated himself. "Of course. You're my best friend." There was that small squeeze at Sherlock's wrist again. They interchanged the role of squeezing each others' hands as a sign of encouragement. The brunette's mouth was agape and he stared down at where John's fingers were in contact with his wrist. He could feel a heartbeat in his veins as they pressed against John's nails. He's selfless, that's what he is. John cares about everyone.

Then he came back to reality and nearly yelled at his buddy in embarrassment. "John! Stop before somebody sees."

John laughed and let his hand fall to his waist. "So what? Oh, you think somebody will get 'ideas'?" John smirked and headed towards the end of the Gryffindor table where Lestrade sat organizing his lunch. Sherlock awkwardly acted normal and adjusted his tie draped around his shoulders before following his friend.

"Well then, if Herbology was 'dull and boring', then how was Potions?" Lestrade asked, completely forgetting that the two boys stood in the middle of the hall for several minutes and had abandoned him.

"It was…entertaining. I don't know if you'd agree. You'd have to meet the teacher."

"Well, that's what you do best," John pointed out, tapping on the table with his left hand beside Holmes's elbow. Sherlock's eyebrow asked the question. "Oh come on." Lestrade was absolutely oblivious as to what they were discussing. Even the smartest person seated together in the group didn't have a clue. "You doing all your experiments back home and mixing various chemicals. The number of times I've seen you do it, I think I would know that you'd enjoy that kind of thing."

Sherlock shrugged and reached down to pull out a book from his bag. He placed One Thousand Magic Herbs And Fungi on the table before him and flipped open to some of the very first pages.

"So, is the Potions teacher making you read too?" Lestrade asked, biting into his salad.

"Nope," was Sherlock's daft response. "Well, sort of. He wants a two rolls of parchment essay on the history of potion making on his desk by Friday."

"What?" Lestrade's fork clattered onto his plate and he nearly choked on some food stuck in the back of his mouth. "He gives you an essay on the first day? Who would do that? That's just torture." He stopped chewing to run his hands through his hair, grabbed large wads of it so it stuck out even farther in the front.

"Not only that," John paused, staring at his schedule and adding to Lestrade's misery, "we have Potions last class tomorrow. We'll have the least amount of time to write it."

"He could be nice and give your class till Monday," Sherlock rationalized, scanning his fingers over the pages of the fresh‒smelling textbook.

"Unlikely," came Lestrade's non‒positive response from behind his elbow. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in a 'whatever' sort of way and completely overlooked the idea having lunch.

"Well," John tried to change the subject, "at least we have Transfiguration together next. Could be interesting…" He took a swig of milk from his goblet and swallowed heavily. "I have to practice my levitation charm."

"You have to practice?" Lestrade snorted, picking at the tomatoes in his salad now like they were his feather from Charms. "At least you got yours to rise off the table. Mine didn't budge a millimeter."

"Oh, shut up you two," Sherlock butted in, rolling his eyes. John finished chomping on his carrots and stared into space at the taller boy's book. His eyes were locked on it, and Holmes showed no interest whatsoever in the two Gryffindors he was sitting with.

"Hello!" came a familiar shy voice from across the table. John lifted his head to find Molly Hooper rushing over to them, her yellow Hufflepuff badge standing out significantly on her chest against the black background. "Would you mind if I joined you?" she asked as she stopped next to the taller Gryffindor.

"Molly!" Lestrade beamed, his mood enlightening at her presence. "Please, come sit down." He welcomed her onto the bench to his right and John gave her a small smile when she caught his eyes. Her bright ginger hair was in her usual ponytail, and she flattened her short, grey skirt under her as she took her seat at the table with the three boys.

"Oi John, pass the salt will you?" Lestrade motioned his hand towards some dishes farther up the table.

"You eat salt on you salad?" John sounded disgusted as he passed over the container.

"Shut up. I bet I'm not the one who does."

"So…" Molly attempted to start a conversation. "How did you like History of Magic today, John? Lestrade?" She stole a piece of celery from the nearest bowl and took a bite.

"Useless." Greg shook his head and lowered his arm onto the table, his elbow barely on the edge. "Professor Binns is a lame teacher. I can sense it already."

"Yeah, he's a bit…odd," Molly admitted. "I would have sat up front with you two, but someone else got there first."

"I know," John said, gesturing with his fork, "I didn't notice you were in our class until I realized that we were with the Hufflepuffs, and then I saw you across the room. You can sit with us next time for sure."

Molly smiled, glad that someone so freely was letting her fit in and belong. "Yeah, I kinda drifted off halfway through class. Everyone did." She shook her head and muttered something about being a terrible person before asking Lestrade to pass her the bread bowl.

"Sherlock?" John tapped on his friend's shoulder to make him take his eyes off the book he was stuck to.

"What, John?" he asked without taking his eyes from page twelve.

"Will you come outside with me? Just for a little while?" John knew Sherlock wasn't fond of nature, but he wanted to discuss something with his schoolmate.

The taller boy was reluctant to join his friend but gave in eventually. He shoved his book back into his bag and followed John out of the hall, both boys lugging their school supplies. The massive front doors of the castle were propped open, and a cool September breeze was freely blowing in.

The view from outside the front doors was spectacular. The Black Lake that they'd crossed the previous night was off in the distance to the right, and behind its far shore a cluster of trees grew, casting a gloomy shadow in their depths. A small cabin in the shape of an octagon sat on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. And there, way over to the right hand side was the Quidditch pitch, the grass a brilliant shade of green, the area for the fans the different colors of the four Hogwarts houses, and the three hoops on either end of the pitch shining silver in the sunlight.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked, taking long strides behind the shorter Gryffindor and somehow managing not to catch up with him.

"Dunno," John concluded dreamily. "Just exploring I guess." Okay…Sherlock thought, confused and waiting for more words to be said. He sped up his pace to become level with the boy in front of him. Huffing and almost out of breath, Holmes glanced down at Watson.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You said you wanted to talk to me," Sherlock reminded him, but he was sure John didn't forget.

"Yes, I did." The blond shuffled his feet in between a few steps and readjusted his bag strap on his shoulder. "It…it's nothing important, mind you. So, if you don't want to talk, I understand…" His voice was a little shaky, like he'd just broken something made of glass.

"No, it's fine. Carry on." Sherlock wouldn't admit it to John yet, but he loved talking to the lion. John always comforted him. He could tell anything to John, even after only knowing him for five months. There was something about the boy with unique blue eyes that stood out to Sherlock, and that something was what connected his heart to the smaller buddy's.

"Okay, um…" John didn't know where to begin. He wet his lips before continuing. "Sherlock, why aren't you trying to make friends?"

What? That's the most random question at this moment. "I‒I…" Sherlock stuttered, and then he added while changing his mood, "Why do you care? It's our first day here." He stopped walking on the spot and John took a few steps ahead of him, not processing the fact that Holmes wasn't following him.

"Because." Sherlock raised his eyebrow, fishing for a better explanation. "I‒I don't want people calling you —"

"Calling me what?" the demand was almost harsh, and Sherlock's green eyes contracted to squint at the blond‒haired boy.

John stumbled to find the right word. He scanned his eyes over the ground multiple times before lifting his pupils cautiously with a nervous tension boiling in his ears.

Finally, the word came to John's mind. He didn't want to say it out loud, but he needed to spit it out. It was the exact same word his sister had called him back home over the summer, and he hated saying it out loud. "A freak."

Sherlock froze. Not in horror or fear, but in shock. John had a déjà vu moment, having a flashback to the night he and Harriet had had their fight; the night John had revealed to his older sibling that he could produce magic. Except this time, it was backwards. Their places had been switched, and instead of the older girl standing disapprovingly at John there was an older boy with messy curls in his hair and piercing green eyes. The Pureblood also hadn't taken the name so personally like the half‒blood had.

"You're worried they'll talk behind my back…" Sherlock slowly proceeded with the conversation.

"What?"

"You think it's from the deductions I make and how I refuse to talk to people. Except you," he added quickly, seeing the upset look on John's face.

"No, it's just…" John paused. "You just never try to make friends, that's all."

"I don't have friends." John felt hurt. His heart sank deep in his chest and he pouted right in front of the Ravenclaw. Without bothering another moment, the first year's feet starting carrying him back towards the castle. He didn't raise his head to glance at his friend as he went by, his black robes swaying behind him in the wind. I'm wasting my time, John thought, shoving his hands back into his pockets and feeling the warm wood of his wand against the fabric of his pants and the skin on his fingers.

"I mean it, John," Sherlock said from over his shoulder, his voice rising with every step the lion took farther from the eagle. John slowed to a halt and rotated on the heel of his foot.

"I don't have friends," Sherlock informed him for the second time. His eyebrows suddenly expanded to the sides of his forehead and distress filled his irises. That came out wrong, he thought. That was rude, Sherlock. He quickly fixed his mistake after insulting himself before the younger wizard had the chance to dash away. "I've just got one."

Is he being serious? John was easy to give in, unlike the genius boy pleading nine yards away. Have I known him long enough to trust him? Watson went to open his mouth but was cut off when Sherlock's deep voice spoke again, gently to calm John's tension. "You are amazing. You are fantastic. You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable."

John lifted his head, stunned at what the first year had just said to him. When he completely had his head tilted up, Sherlock's face was inches from his own. All John could manage to say was, "What?" Sherlock didn't respond.

There was a tiny squeeze on John's right wrist.

"Come on," he encouraged, patting John on his shoulder, "we have to get to Transfiguration."

"Sherlock…" John nodded down to where their hands were almost clasped. When the older wizard didn't correspond, his friend spoke for him. "People might talk."

Sherlock shrugged, letting John's hand float down back to his side. "People do little else."

He winked to be cheeky.

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock and John sat next to each other in their Transfiguration class, scanning the room and catching no sight of the other Gryffindor. Professor McGonagall had introduced them briefly to the subject she taught at Hogwarts and had sent them off to practice simple spells to transfigure skimpy objects. All the students were attempting to turn a quill into a pencil at a beginner level to start the year.

"Might have gone to the wrong class," Sherlock suggested, tapping on his quill. He wasn't getting very far. His quill had turned the yellow color of a pencil and the tip had changed to look like lead, but it still squirted ink from the end ironically. John had done no progress on his quill at all. The best he'd managed to produce from his magic was making the feather balance on its tip.

"Is there a trick to doing this or something?" he asked Sherlock, who was concentrating very intently on his quill but still didn't have any success. "Cause I seem to be getting nowhere." John frowned at his feathery‒white writing utensil. It wobbled on its end and thus floated down to land on the polished table.

"You're not waving your wand the right way," the cleverer wizard told him. John gave his hand a dirty look, even though he knew the spell started with his brain. "Although, it could just be the fact that your wand hasn't completely bonded with you yet; it could still be trying to get to know you and how you learn." Holmes waved his wand with a flick of his wrist, and the end of the pointed feather transformed into a pink pencil eraser.

"Practice makes perfect," John sighed, shaking his head and frowning so one side of his mouth was higher than the other.

Just then, the wooden door at the back of the classroom busted open and Lestrade rushed in, huffing and puffing with gasps of air. Only a few faint voices were heard as the noise in the room died down and the attention turned to the late first year.

Professor McGonagall rose from her high‒backed chair behind her desk. "Excuse me, but my lesson began quite a while ago," was all she was able to compliment.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Lestrade gasped, rubbing both his hands over a throbbing pain in his ribs. "I couldn't find the classroom."

"Perhaps you should get yourself a map then Mister —" she paused, not knowing his name.

"Lestrade. Greg Lestrade, Professor." He straightened his posture as he neglected to introduce himself previously.

"Well, I'll let it slide for today Mr. Lestrade, but be sure not to be late again." She pointed her finger at him sternly so he got the message clearly.

"I won't, Professor McGonagall," he promised, bowing his head. "I'll make sure of it."

"Thank you. You may take your seat now. Keep transforming everyone!" she encouraged, taking her seat back behind her desk and adjusting her emerald wizard hat over her the tight bun in her hair.

Greg let his bag fall to the floor next to Sherlock's leg, pulling over a chair to join the two boys. "What are we doing?" he asked, still inhaling large breaths through his lungs.

"Here," John said, handing him an extra feather. "We're trying to transform them into Muggle pencils." He told Lestrade the spell they were using, but he wasn't paying much attention.

"Oh no, not the feathers again," he mumbled, groaning at the thought of Charms class not two hours earlier.

"Hey, freak." The obnoxious voice came from behind Sherlock's back and he swiveled around in his chair. Sally Donovan sat behind him with the pretty girl named Mary Morstan settled beside her. John felt his cheeks blush a little. Why am I blushing? he thought. I'm not that interested in her…He may have been wrong with himself. Maybe I am developing a girl crush.

"Nice to see you too," Lestrade shot at her before Sherlock could make some rude comment right back.

"So, you're hanging around with us Gryffindors are you?" She seemed like it was a crime for members of houses to talk to one another.

"Problem?" The only Ravenclaws Sherlock knew where the four boys from his dorm, and they were all idiots and boring.

"So, is it true then?" she continued, without remarking about his friendships.

"Is what true?"

"That you can tell someone's whole life story by looking at them?" The doe‒faced girl was tugging at the sleeve of Sally's robes, begging her to cease the teasing statements and phrases.

"Why? Would you like me to try?" Sherlock seemed deeply amused by her interest and immediately began making deductions about her in his head. Before he could announce them for proof, he was interrupted by Professor McGonagall spotting them.

"Mr. Holmes, Ms. Donovan, you may socialize, but I suggest you learn to multitask. Get back to work, please." She adjusted her spectacles on her nose and watched them with eyes like a hawk. John had his hand positioned in the right place just in case something sketchy happened, but he couldn't punch someone from his own house, even if they were nosy. He wasn't fond of receiving detention on his first day anyways.

Sherlock turned back around in his seat to face the front of the room. He elbowed John on his hip and leaned over to whisper into his ear. "She always argues about everything. Don't mess with her unless you can create a decent fight." He started to go back to his transformations but stopped and leaned back in to comment again. "She's also from a really poor family."

"Sherlock…" John warned, his low voice coming in one sharp tone.

"Just saying." He smirked being his usual know‒it‒all self, and with a tiny swish of his hand completely transformed his quill successfully into a pencil.

"Show‒off," Lestrade moaned.

"So, you 'couldn't find the classroom'?" John joked as the two Gryffindors exited the front doors to the castle, heading to the Quidditch pitch for their first flying lesson. John bid Sherlock good luck as he headed off in the direction for History of Magic, motioning with his hands that he might fall asleep because of the boredom.

"It's true!" Greg exclaimed. "I was going to wait for you two to come back, but I didn't want to be late. Figures, I was late for class anyway." He strolled along the grass with his hands in his pockets, chest held high like he was a king. The bottom of his white shirt still hung carelessly out from the bottom of his sweater.

When they arrived at the Quidditch pitch, they found about a dozen students already setting down their belongings on some of the nearby stands. A familiar face rushed over to them as they joined their class with the Hufflepuffs.

"You ready to take flying lessons, Molly?" She debated with herself and made many different faces but eventually got out her decision. "Yeah, why not? I may be a little clumsy, but I'm not too afraid."

"Good for you," Lestrade grinned, patting her in between her shoulder blades. As John dropped his school bag onto the grass, a witch in her forties swept out onto the field, her black and white striped robes flowing behind her. In the middle of the field, perfectly aligned were two rows of broomsticks. The teacher approached the brooms and the students began to gather around her.

"Welcome students! My name is Madam Hooch." She addressed the class and there was a cheerful and polite response back. "Welcome to your first flying lesson. Today, hopefully most of you will be able to successfully ride a broomstick for the first time. But first, we must practice. Step up to your brooms." She motioned for the students to stand next one of the sweepers, and about a dozen pairs of feet shuffled in the grass and dirt.

"Now, what you want to do is stick your right hand over your broom and say 'up'." John and Molly exchanged looks. This isn't as hard as it looks, John thought, a smile tugging at his lips. He moved his non‒dominant hand over the broom lying on the ground to his right. He spread his fingers out wide and all around him voices were ringing in his ears as they tried to make the brooms float off the ground.

John noticed that not all the brooms were rising to their callers. He tried himself, hoping the cleaning tool would response to the call of his words. "Up!" Instantly, the long, wooden ride lifted gracefully through the air and the student was able to grab it. It was like watching a magnet being pulled to his hand.

Lestrade gave him a look like he was insane. "What?" John replied, shrugging his shoulders. "You try." So, Lestrade gave it a go and found better results than he expected. The first time he yelled, "Up!" all his broom did was give a slight twitch and fall back down to the earth.

When he attempted the second time, his broom too rose to greet his hand. He expressed his wide grin in pleasure and laughed at all the kids who had failed to get their brooms to be held in their palms. Even Molly had a bit of a hard time, but after a few angry shouts it gave in and she grasped her long vehicle in her hand as well. A few of the kids simply bent down to pick up their brooms after they'd had enough and cheated, and once all the brooms were off the ground Madam Hooch spoke again.

"Now, in order to kick off the ground and be successful at flying, you must have a firm grip on the handle. So, everyone mount your brooms." The students did as they were told, and John made sure both his hands were secure on the long stick of flat wood.

"When I blow my whistle, I want all of you to kick off from the ground. For now, just learn to keep your brooms steady and under control. From there we'll proceed to flying around a bit. Wait for my signal. Three…Two…One…" She blew hard on her whistle, making it shriek into the September air. John kicked hard off the ground and he felt his body lift above the small crowd. Lestrade, Molly, and only a few others had got up the courage to push off the turf.

John found the broom remarkably easy to control. Whenever he turned the hilt to the right, it did as he told it to and swerved the matching pathway. He hovered in the air, watching a few of his fellow flyers struggle with their brooms. Cautiously, John leaned ever so slightly forward and his weight applied on the broom as he touched back down on the field. Lestrade watched John and followed his instructions he hadn't given, but since he watched the smaller housemate he knew what to do.

"You there!" Madam Hooch yelled, pointing at the eleven‒year‒old. "What's your name?"

"John Watson."

"Show me that again." He freely did so. She looked impressed and gave him special privileges. "Try flying around the stadium a bit," Madam Hooch told him. John didn't argue or question why, but instead kicked off the ground again. "And you can too," she added, pointing at Lestrade.

John loved the feeling of the cool breeze against his face as he sped over the students. It reminded him of driving a car, except without all the extra buttons and switches. He found it incredibly easy to steer in any direction, and he heard a girl from down below shout, "How does he do that?" Clearly some people were jealous, and John smirked at his skill.

Madam Hooch let him and Lestrade zoom around the stadium for most of the class, and even she marveled at their insane talent. She'd never seen such excellent first year flyers; at least, not in a long time. Eventually, Molly was able to push off the ground and fly once around the stadium, but her shaky hands couldn't last long on the flying object.

John became so natural at flying in his first hour of the experience that he felt like he was riding the wind. When the lesson came to a close, the amateur didn't want to hand back the broom that he'd become so close to, but he had to because it was school property and didn't belong to him sadly.

"That was crazy, John!" Molly commented as they made their back to the castle. Watson couldn't wait to tell Sherlock all about his new skill, because he was sure his best friend would want to hear about it. "Where'd you learn to fly like that?"

"I‒I've never flown before," John admitted. I must be really good from the way they're marveling so much. "That was my first time."

"You're kidding me, right?" Lestrade nudged him, his eyes going wide.

"Nope. Hey, you didn't do so bad yourself. Same with you, Molly." The Hufflepuff blushed at the compliment.

"Well, we're done with classes for today," the ginger said, pulling out two textbooks from her bag and hugging them to her chest. "So, what do we do now?"

"I suppose we should head back to our common rooms," Lestrade suggested the idea, and Molly agreed quickly.

"Maybe later," John told them. "I might meet up with Sherlock and see how his other class went this afternoon. Besides, then we can have fun practicing Charms again," he said, nudging the black‒haired lion with a teasing and ridiculous smirk plastered on his face. Lestrade rolled his eyes and Hooper giggled.

And with that, John left them to carry on with their conversation. Before he was completely out of earshot, he caught a few words Greg shared with Molly. "I swear, they're inseparable those two." And John smiled, because what everyone thought was undeniably the truth.

As John walked by himself to the History of Magic classroom so he could find Sherlock, he passed the hallway that led down to the dungeons. A group of Slytherin girls were lurking nearby and he bent his head over as he speed‒walked by, doing his best to block out their hisses. One of them tried to smile and show that she was truly friendly, but unfortunately John didn't catch her white teeth showing.

He wasn't paying attention to where he was going as well, and the result was that he ran into a boy who was much larger than his size. John didn't know whether to be annoying or careful as he raised his head to apologize.

"Oh, sorry. My fault."

"Hello, John," came the same brotherly taunting and powerful voice. The younger kid could recognize that voice any day of the week from the number of times he'd visited the Holmes' mansion back home.

Black umbrella acting as a cane, smug look on his face, Mycroft Holmes towered over the first year Gryffindor, emerald and silver prefect badge gleaming on his chest.