Chapter Ten

On Our Way

"Congratulations."

John thought he heard incorrectly so he gave Mycroft a baffled look. "Sorry…What?"

"I believe I made myself clear." Mycroft didn't need to repeat himself. "Congratulations on being sorted in Gryffindor. I'm sure your parents will be pleased."

"Oh, I haven't told them yet." John considered Mycroft's hint and thought about going back up to the common room later to write a letter to his family. After all, he was going to practice Charms with Lestrade before dinner that night.

"Well, I'm sure they'll want to hear from you as soon as possible." Mycroft pulled out a pocket watch from his Slytherin robes and glanced at the time. "I suppose you're looking for my brother."

"Yes, I am," the shorter of the two gleamed, perking up. John gave him a hopeful look and ran his hand up and down his tan bag strap. "Would you happen to know where he is?" he asked very politely. John always hated chatting with the older Holmes because he'd always been annoying and disturbing back home when he came to visit Sherlock. He didn't try to show his bored tone though as he talked with the sixteen‒year‒old, digging to get an answer out of him.

"After having a tedious chat with him, he claimed he was going to the library to do his Potions essay. There's no guaranteed you'll find him." He tapped his umbrella on the marble floor three times.

"Right…Thanks!" John said, awkwardly waving and pushing past the older Holmes brother. He made his way up the marble staircase alone, exploring various corridors as he walked past.

I could find something new here every day, John thought, picturing himself and Sherlock roaming the halls after hours and causing trouble.

"There you are!" Sherlock was hidden in a small corner of the library in between two bookshelves, nose poured over some parchment. He was writing very frantically, clearly trying to dump all of his thoughts into the essay before they escaped from his mind. When John approached him, the eagle didn't take his eyes from his homework.

"Sherlock?"

No response. John even sat down across from him and he didn't look up.

"Sherlock!" John said louder, snapping his fingers over his homework.

"W‒What?" The Ravenclaw stopped scribbling wildly and looked up to see who had called his name. "Oh, hi John," he said, placing his quill back in his bottle of ink.

"Why so wrapped up in homework?" John asked, staring at the neat cursive scripted on the parchment. "You said it wasn't due till Friday."

"It's not," Sherlock said positively, blowing lightly on the ink so it would dry. "I‒I just thought I'd get it over with now before I get more homework later."

"Ah. Well, don't stress yourself too much," John comforted, extending out his arm to grip Sherlock's wrist. "After all, it is our first day." Sherlock heaved a deep sigh and frowned at his essay.

"You're right John…"

"What?"

"You're right. I'm trying too hard already. I don't even know why. All of this is quite easy for me."

"I wonder why," John chuckled, looking at Sherlock's face, but the brunette wasn't looking back. "You've got the brain of a scientist." The edge of Holmes's mouth twisted into a grin. "Sorry I disturbed you though…I feel bad."

"Oh no, it's fine. Personally, I'm glad you did." The younger Holmes brother punched John lightly on his upper arm. The Gryffindor returned the favor, tugging on the sleeve of Sherlock's robes.

"Well, you can keep writing if you want. Mycroft reminded me to send a letter to my family back home. Might as well do it here so you're not alone." He bent over the side of the table, rummaging through his bag for his quill, ink bottle, and a blank sheet of parchment. He found his writing utensil and paper but the ink bottle refused to show itself. John eventually scoffed it from the bottom corner, hidden in the shadows among a few textbooks and his Pocket Sneakoscope, which he'd carelessly thrown in at the last minute to see if it would catch any suspicious. Luckily his bag shielded the flashing lights it gave off, and it wasn't noisy enough to be detected through the fabric. Quite a useful little tool.

"Tell your family I said hi and wish them all well," Sherlock said, returning back to his essay but slowing down with his writing pace.

"Will do," John grinned.

He sat in silence and pondered the words he would write on the blank parchment. The lion rolled over the thoughts in his mind, debating how he would begin explaining all the information that had happened in under forty‒eight hours. Finally, coming to a satisfied conclusion, he dipped his quill into the pitch black ink and began to write.

Dear Mum, Dad, and Harriet,

I hope you're all doing well. My first day here went really well and I met a few more friends on the train ride here. But, for the most exciting news, I got sorted into Gryffindor! Pretty rough having to go through sorting as the first thing after you get off the train, but Sherlock was there to help me through it for the most part. He says hello by the way and was sorted into Ravenclaw.

Greg Lestrade is a pretty decent bloke so far; funny and full of himself in a way, but I'm in a few classes with him. Molly Hooper is that sort of girl anyone would want as a friend; strong yet shy, she's very loyal to everyone. I haven't talked much with her, since she was sorted into Hufflepuff and has different classes than me.

First day went pretty well. Not too much homework, just have to practice some spells. I'm sure the homework will pile up quickly though. I've also got really good at flying a broomstick, and I've only had one lesson so far! Even Molly and Lestrade were impressed!

That's all for now. Again, I wish you all well. So does Sherlock. I promise I'll keep in touch later when school gets more exciting.

I love you.

-John Watson

"This is preposterous," Lestrade mumbled the next day after dinner, setting out supplies needed to write a paper on the table before him. "I mean, first day of Potions, with the Slytherins, and Snape gives us a two page essay!" He slammed both fists on the table before the roaring fire and John simply sank into the nearest squashy armchair.

"Yeah, he's a git. I can already tell." John sighed. He already knew the essay was coming with Sherlock frantically scribbling his own a day prior, but this meant he had one less day to complete it than the Ravenclaw did.

"Did you see the way he looked at me too?" Greg grumbled. His fellow housemate shook his head. "He looked at me like I was a slug or something; like he might throw up if I even move a muscle." Lestrade unscrewed the cap on his ink bottle and a single drop of the writing liquid dribbled onto a corner of his parchment. His face shriveled up and he wrinkled his nose. "I can't believe he took five points from Gryffindor just because I couldn't answer a question…" His head shook in disappointment.

"He almost took five from me too," John told him, crossing one leg over the other and resting his hands behind his neck.

"You're kidding me right?" John wasn't kidding. "What, does Snape just hate Gryffindor house or something?"

"From what Sherlock told me about what Mycroft knows, yep. He's head of Slytherin house, so he loves his own students but absolutely hates the other houses; especially if the kids in them are stupid or, don't use their brains as I should say." He shuffled the pile of books stacked on the table in front of him and opened One Thousand Magical Herbs And Fungi to page ten. Bored, Lestrade flipped through his copy and studied the colorful moving pictures on the pages.

"I can't see how Sherlock is into Potions," Lestrade muttered, scanning a page and stopping at what looked like an image of a poisonous flower. "I mean, no offense, but the teacher's a —"

"Bastard?" John finished for him.

"Yeah."

John stared out the Gryffindor common room window. In the limited view he could see a part of the Black Lake with the ghostly trees in the distance, along with the edge of the darkened Quidditch pitch. The three sports hoops reflected the moonlight onto the rooftops of the castle towers. The navy blue sky was blotched with grey puffs of clouds, each containing a silver lining. The fire in his own common room was giving a contradictory glow to his symmetrical face, and so he had red marks tinted on his cheeks.

"But what do you think of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Bob Franklin?" Watson asked, turning his attention back to Lestrade, who sat on the floor staring into the flames of the fire.

Greg craned his neck in a so‒so motion. "He's okay. I think he'll get better once we know him more and have more classes with him." John nodded in agreement, thinking that was a reasonable hypothesis. He adjusted his paper on the table, positioning his hand over the invisible essay he had laid out in his mind.

"Now, where to begin?" he debated, flicking the end of the quill off his chin.

Lestrade stirred just as John positioned his quill to write. "There," he sighed, removing his hand from his essay. "Done."

"What?" the shorter boy exclaimed, giving his new friend a look. "How?"

"Well, at least with the first paragraph," he corrected, lounging back on his outstretched arms so his full weight was put into the joints in his shoulders.

John fixed the poised quill in his palm, making sure his wrist didn't scrape the parchment. "It sucks being left‒handed sometimes," he stated. "Cause if I smudge my homework, I'll be pissed off…"

During the next weekend, news had spread through the school that the dementors of Azkaban were arriving any day. Most if not all of the students were frightened at the fact that Azkaban creatures would guard the school, but a select few were thrilled and wanted to see the creatures up close, one of which was Sherlock. John looked at him like he was crazy, and because of his loyalty warned Sherlock to stay away from them.

"I think they'll be fascinating," he shared his opinion over breakfast one day. "I mean, I'm not going to attack them or anything, I just want to get a good look." Molly passed him the tray of bacon and he munched happily on the meat.

"Still, you actually want to see those things? They practically provide the most disturbing sight for wizards," Lestrade stated, moving his elbow so John could scoot in closer as he chewed on his breakfast in silence.

"Everybody needs a good kick in their career," Sherlock said. "Why not now? I guess this is mine."

"Well, I'm certainly not taking a chance with those creatures." Molly spoke up and played a part in their conversation.

"Molly, you're scared of everything that resembles a bug or doesn't look attractive to you," the taller Gryffindor teased, looking across the table where she sat next to the lone Ravenclaw.

"Not…everything." Hooper sank her head down in shame. She perked up quickly though and gave Lestrade a stern stare. "But I certainly should be terrified of a creature that has the ability to kill a student in a lesser time than a serious injury can!"

Her words were so fierce she managed to silence all three boys in shock. They were interrupted before one of them could comment on her retort by a voice no one wanted to witness.

"Hey, freak." Sherlock rolled his eyes as Sally Donovan came sauntering up behind him, hands on her hips. John tried to hold himself together; it had been six days since she'd first insulted him during Transfiguration.

"Yes?" Sherlock mocked, giving her a smug smile and asking as politely as he could what she wanted. Mary Morstan was nowhere to be seen, but instead the Hufflepuff boy who glared at everyone stood behind her shoulder. All three of the friends around Sherlock shifted in their chairs to get a better look.

"You."

"Me?" Sherlock pointed at his chest, acting stupid on purpose to make Donovan get to her point.

"You never proved you could tell my whole life story to me." She added an act of defiance to the end of her sentence and pursed her lips, thinking she was more superior than her fellow schoolmates. Sherlock looked her up and down twice before turning back to her and getting off topic.

"You haven't introduced your friend to me yet." He gave her the eyebrow but she didn't fall for it.

"Prove it first." Stubborn, Sherlock deduced, rolling his eyes.

"No," John butted in, but Sherlock grabbed his upper arm across the table as he remained seated. His muscles were rock hard and bulging against his fingers. "You have no business to demand something out of any of us," he stuck up for all of them, turning the ability of his fiery personality on Sally.

"You come from a poor family," Sherlock started, ignoring his best friend's denial. "Going by your robes, which are second hand, you can't afford much. That's also why you don't have a pet. Both of your parents are Muggles, and so when you discovered you were a witch you told everyone. That's why you're so snobby and full of yourself."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled from the opposite bench, his face staring at the consulting child with his mouth open. But the younger Holmes brother ignored Greg and continued on his rant.

"I can tell from the way you just ignored to introduce your friend that you're rebellious; you'll do whatever your mind forces you to in order to win an argument. You don't like to be proven wrong. Well, there you go. I just proved you wrong. You think you're so smart and the best here, well your statement's lacking. No wonder the sorting hat didn't place you in Ravenclaw; you can't use your brain to save your life."

Oh, that was an embarrassing burn, Molly thought in her mind, her mouth hanging open.

With that Sherlock rose from his seat, fixing the collar of his white shirt and tucking his teasing Ravenclaw tie into his blazer, making sure Donovan could see.

"No need to introduce your friend anyway," Sherlock told her. "His name is Anderson." Holmes giggled at the hilarious gasp expression on her face in his head. Her big, bushy hair stood out on end, making her face look extremely ludicrous and horror‒struck. Just to piss her off even more, Sherlock Holmes brushed off the front of his suit, grinned, and turned slowly away on his feet.

That showed her. His grin became wider as he strolled from the hall, leaving Donovan complaining to the three first years as he shoved another delicious maple‒smoked piece of bacon into his mouth, enjoying the taste just as much as the facial complexion on the Gryffindor's face. He disappeared around the corner to block out Sally's displeased shouts.

"He had no right to do that!" she screeched, pointing as his robes swished around the entrance to the Great Hall.

"Actually, he did," Lestrade said, looking at her and defending his rebuttal. She glared at him with lips puffed out and her tongue visible behind her teeth. Cavity, Greg noticed the clue, spotting a silver crown hidden in the back of her mouth. "You asked for it," he concluded.

"And who are you to defend him?" Sally snorted.

John was the first of the three friends on his feet. "We didn't defend him." He spoke to her from the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, raising his voice so she could hear him from a quarter of the way across the hall. "If you didn't notice, I tried to stop him before he insulted you. You need to straighten out your priorities." His robes were lying on the bench next to his housemate, and he stood before Donovan wearing his white shirt and Gryffindor tie. The sight was captivating; both lions were as tall as the each other yet John was much more muscular and could take the girl any day of the week. "So don't place the blame on any of us."

"Sally, this is ridiculous." It was the opening time they'd heard Anderson speak. His voice was flat and deep, and he watched them with demon eyes. John did a little jaw twitch prior to the Hufflepuff speaking again. "Let's just leave these gentlemen and lady…" he indicated Molly with flashing pupils, "to themselves."

Watson increased the intensity of his breathing to get the two bullies to bugger off. His eyes remained locked on the lion and badger until they had completely left the hall, no doubt judging them and whispering behind their backs.

He felt a tug at the end of his sleeve and the hotness of Lestrade's body heat he gave off. "If that brat would just keep her mouth shut, we wouldn't have this problem," he grumbled.

"I need to have a little discussion…" The shortest friend took off before either of the first years could argue with him, heading for the only place in the entire castle he knew the Ravenclaw would head for.

Footsteps were bounding through the silent library, echoing off the distant shelves but being blocked by the rows of books with bumpy pages. Sherlock sat on the floor, knees hunched up to his chest, bouncing a rubber ball off a piece of furniture in front of him. The trotting was becoming louder with each step, and soon a figure stopped in the corner of his eye.

"What the hell was that?" Sherlock didn't need to turn his head to know who the electrifying voice belonged to. He didn't want to speak with his best friend at the moment; in fact, he didn't even want to look at him. All he wanted to do was be excluded from the world in the small corner of the library.

There was no response from the taller boy, just a casual shrug of the shoulders.

"You don't know…" John's voice was rising and several people stopped attempting to finish their homework to stare at the petite first year. He caught the eye of a fifth year Ravenclaw girl snarling at him, so he made a waving off motion with his hand and stepped out of view from the main aisle in the center of the study.

"Sherlock —" John started again in a hard whisper, but the older boy cut him off and the blond threw up his hands in innocence.

"What? She deserved it! She asked for it, so I gave it to her." He caught the ball in his hand and squeezed it hard, making it sink into a cylinder rather than a sphere shape. John could tell Sherlock was in a bad mood, so he proceeded to the next part of the conversation carefully.

"Yeah, I admit she was snobby, but you didn't need to shut her out like that. She tried to blame it on us after you left." He shoved his thumb over his shoulder to indicate what happened back in the Great Hall. "Come on Sherlock, behave!"

"What did you expect me to do? Just shrug it off and keep having her call me freak?" John's eyes went both wide and sad at the mention of the name, and he stared down at the floor, drawing circles with his foot on the floorboards.

"At least now she'll stay away from me…" Sherlock muttered, throwing the rubber ball so hard in hit a book on the shelf and sent it skimming an inch backwards. John's chest sank a few centimeters as he saw his depressed friend curled up in the corner.

An awkward moment of silence passed between the two buddies in which John stared at the floor and Sherlock gazed out the window. Finally, John spoke up and broke the strengthening chain.

"I don't want that…"

"What?" It was the first time Sherlock had looked up at John since he'd came yelling at him.

"That's not what I want. You don't deserve to be called freak. I just wish you'd try to make friends and not reject them, that's all." His nervous feet could be heard scraping over the squeaky wood, coming closer to Sherlock's huddled figure. Watson sank down to sit across from the taller boy, legs fully outstretched and sandy hair brushed off his forehead.

"Then I need some help."

"What?" The unheard‒of thought blurted from Sherlock's mouth without warning or rejection.

"You heard me perfectly; I'm not saying it again." He gave John a look, and his lion couldn't help but show the small smile on his lips.

"You…Sherlock Holmes, need advice?"

"Not just ordinary advice. Advice from my most trusted friend." John's head cocked to the side in curiosity.

"So, will you, John Watson, help me?" The question sounded unsure, but his eyes told John he was being serious. He's saying it like it's an oath or something, John noticed.

Damn my confusion, the Gryffindor cursed at himself. "Help you with what, Sherlock?"

One word escaped from the consulting boy's mouth. "Everything."

"I already know how to disarm people," Sherlock complained during their fifth Defense Against the Dark Arts class. He stared glumly at the words on the pages in their textbook, knowing the spell was Expelliarmus. When successfully mastered, your opponent's wand would fly out of their hand, leaving them defenseless.

"Well, others don't," Lestrade informed him, learning how to properly pronounce the spell.

"Doesn't seem so hard," John said, closing his book and pulling his wand from beneath his robes. "Want to test it out, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Finally," Sherlock sighed, jumping up eagerly from his chair. A large empty space had been cleared in the center of the room for practicing, and partners were split up to try disarming one another. Sherlock and John went all the way to the far side of the room, closest to the left wall yet making sure they had enough room to spread their arms wide.

"You go first," Sherlock nodded to John, who stood ten feet away with his wand held by his side.

"Why is it always me?"

"Dunno. Don't ask questions, just practice." John did as he was told and raised his wand. He had an unsure expression on his face, but nonetheless yelled, "Expelliarmus!" at Sherlock. His opponent's wand didn't fly out of his hand. Instead, John's wand twitched and tried to escape out of his own fingertips. He gazed confused at his wand and his professor spotted the problem before Sherlock could correct the Gryffindor.

"You're flourishing your wand a little too much," Professor Franklin told him. His brown robes were stained with coffee and his white hair was slicked back with hair gel. His eyes were hard almost all the time, but he could give you an encouraging smile whenever it deemed appropriate. "Try not to flick your wrist so much."

More confident, John prepared himself to fire again at Sherlock, this time paying attention to the way he had to cast the spell. Professor Franklin started to walk away to observe the other students, but John knew he was watching him again.

"Expelliarmus!" Sherlock's long wand flew out of his hand, surfing through the air. John caught it as the stick came into his possession, and Holmes smiled as Watson threw his friend's wand back directly afterwards.

"Nice job," Sherlock commented. Without warning, he fired right back and yelled, "Expelliarmus!" sending John's wand out of his reach towards the older boy. John sighed in a 'no fair' way as Sherlock smirked, gripping both wands securely in his hand. John made a waving motion with his fingers, indicating for Sherlock to give him his wand back.

"Alright show‒off," he teased, catching his stick in both hands, "Bring it on."

John Watson walked casually with Molly Hooper on their third Thursday from Herbology when an unknown Gryffindor fourth year came to a sudden halt in their path. Molly stopped, startled, nearly dropping her books while John gave the girl a questioning stare.

Without telling them her name, she asked the boy, "Are you John Watson?"

John glanced at Molly and then slowly turned back to the fourteen‒year‒old. "Um, yeah…"

"Okay good." She sighed and gave him the information before John asked to question why she was there. "Professor McGonagall would like to see you in her office." She turned and bolted off without another word. Watson gulped loudly in his throat and exhaled deeply. He felt Molly's hand snake up his back to rest on his shoulder.

"Don't tell me I'm in trouble…" he murmured, and apologized to Molly as he left her at the entrance to the Great Hall for lunch.

John let out a shaky breath outside the professor's office, hand hovering over the door knob. He stopped himself before opening the door and instead knocked politely. There was a muffled, "Come in," from behind the barrier, and John turned the handle to step inside.

Professor McGonagall sat behind her desk wearing plain black robes with a matching witch hat. A basket with some sort of snacks was positioned on the edge of the table, and a lonely chair rested on its legs in front of her desk.

John poked his head around the corner and the teacher stared up at him. "You wanted to see me, Professor?" he asked, making sure he was correct before traveling over to her desk.

"Yes I did, Mr. Watson. Have a seat. Don't worry," she informed him, spotting the worriment on his face, "you've done nothing wrong."

John slowly walked over to her desk and set his bag down on the floor next to the abandoned chair. The chair legs squeaked softly on the polished floor as he sat down in front of the head of his own house.

"Biscuit?" she offered him, pointing to the tray. So that's what was mysteriously in the tin.

"Uh, no thanks I'm fine," John stuttered, shaking his hands.

"Alright then." John sank farther back into the chair, waiting for the news to come from her mouth while staring into her hawk‒like eyes. Some of the stuffing was protruding from the pads on the chair's arms, but it was nonetheless still an acceptable level of comfort to sit for a short time.

"John," she began, folding her hands together and bending her elbows so they rested on the table, "tell me; what do you know about Quidditch?" He raised his eyebrows in disorientation, mouth wide open, stuttering.

But all he could think of was the honest truth. Not a damn thing.