Chapter Fifteen

It Is What It Is

Sherlock sat on the floor of the Room of Requirement, knees bent and pulled up to his chest. A skinny body was lying on the floor behind his back, blond hair dented from the pressure of the room's bottom, blue eyes sleeping behind his eyelids and tiny sweat droplets sprinkling his face.

The fright of the dementor had sent John falling to the floor, unable to conjure a shield to protect himself from harm. The glass candle lamps had dimmed to barely flickering, and now as Sherlock huddled on the floor, he felt the overpowering cold sweep over him even after the dementor had vanished.

"Incendio," the eagle muttered, pointing his wand at the empty fireplace, which sent flames onto the logs and caught fire. It took a few minutes for the practice space to warm up, and the light ricocheted off the glossy walls like a reflection.

Suddenly there was a groan from the Gryffindor on the floor, and he pushed himself up onto his elbow, rubbing his throbbing head while squinting through blurred eyes. His wand had slid out of his hand when he collapsed and was lying a few feet away. Holmes flung around at the noise from the younger boy's mouth and the shuffle of his feet on the polished floor.

"Oh, um…Hi, John," Sherlock said awkwardly. The receiver sank back onto the floor, groaning and wiping off the crusty sweat from his forehead. Sherlock started to crawl over to his weak friend, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt from the heat of the fire. He reached John's side, bending over his chest, looking into his dazed face. The lion avoided staring into his brilliant green eyes for a few seconds. Then he met them, searching for the truth.

"W‒What happened?" He pulled a clump of his own hair.

"Um…Well, you were doing really well. No you were!" he exclaimed, seeing John roll his eyes in disbelief. "But, when the dementor advanced on you, um, well…you sort of went rigid and held your mouth open in shock. I was afraid you had a heart attack or something…"

"Great," John mumbled, slapping a hand over his face in embarrassment.

I know this is rude, but I have to say it anyway. "Nice wipe out though…" The Ravenclaw smirked just to piss off his friend.

"Shut up," Watson grumbled, rolling over onto his stomach and burying his head in his hands. He mumbled into his palms a few words which were muffled under his body weight. Sherlock didn't know what to say, so he rubbed John's knotted muscles in his upper back.

"I think we'll just stick to no boggart for now…"

"I think that would be best," John agreed, tilting his head so Sherlock could hear.

"You think you're ready for another go?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. "Without the monster," he added hastily. John rolled over onto his back again, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression. His arm stretched out, tapping the floor for his wand without using eye contact. The wood connected with his fingers and he felt the magical touch in his veins.

I'm going to get this…he encouraged himself, his eyes flashing with determination and persistence. He offered Sherlock his hand, signaling for his friend to help him up.

"Hell yes."

Over the next few weeks, the fallen leaves resting on the ground turned a rusty shade of brown and crumbled whenever touched. Every morning, the students of Hogwarts would rise to find a slim layer of frost painted on the grounds. The temperatures began to drop rapidly, and students were seen wearing sweaters outside with scarves keeping their necks warm. Winter was on the verge of existence, fading in to take the place of autumn. November was coming to a close, and a couple weeks remained before the last month of the year.

"But, how can you not have produced one yet?" John questioned one Sunday morning as they strolled towards a small hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Their Patronus lesson the day before was a success for all four students; both John and Lestrade had shields bigger than the length of their torsos, and Molly and Mary always giggled at each other when they spotted each other's hula hoop sized protectors. "In fact," John continued, bending his head down against the cold, "I haven't even seen you try and produce one. You're so focused on us that you don't attempt to cast one yourself."

Sherlock stared down at the untidy note in his hand. Mycroft clearly must have told the Gamekeeper all about his little brother, because he now held an invitation in his grasp. The note read:

Sherlock,

I'd like you to come visit soon. How about stopping round for tea on Sunday?

And if you don't mind, bring one of your friends. I'd like to meet them.

Hagrid

This was not the way Hagrid always talked, because when he spoke Sherlock disapproved of his lack of grammar skills. Such a British thing, to have tea, he chuckled. Originally, Sherlock had asked Molly to accompany him, but she refused and claimed she had an essay to write. She just wanted to get out of meeting the half‒giant in person. And Holmes wasn't going to put up with Lestrade for over half an hour, so the only available option left was John or nobody.

Sherlock made up a ridiculous excuse to answer John's remark. "I have been practicing." That bit was true. "But on my own. I just haven't been able to come up with a memory that's strong enough." He gave Watson a quick smile so the younger boy believed him and went back to warming his hands.

Sherlock knew he lied. He felt guilty about not telling the truth to the only person he trusted. I have produced a Patronus, he said rather angrily to himself. Just like John's. A strong shield, but not corporeal yet.

His feet began to pick up the pace as John looked like he was about to freeze. His cheeks were bright pink and his hands were beginning to turn white. Sherlock didn't show the slightest sign that he was cold, as he'd even left his Ravenclaw scarf back in his dormitory. John's red and gold scarf was so long in came down to his rib cage, even when it was wrapped around his neck once. Every individual thread was bold against the black tint of his cloak.

"Oh, I should probably warn you now," Sherlock said, grabbing Watson's upper arm and turning the Gryffindor to face him. Holmes was so close to the door of the hut he could easily reach out and knock on the wood. "If…" He made a motion with his hands, making sure he was making a point and getting John's attention. "If Hagrid offers you any of his food, just be polite and don't take it, okay?" From the stories Mycroft shared, Sherlock knew to stay away from Hagrid's cooking.

John stared into his green eyes, understanding the lesson. He nodded, squeezing Sherlock's wrist. Sighing, the Ravenclaw knocked on the front door of the hut, crumbling the note in his palm and shoving it into his pocket.

Someone mumbled behind the door and thumping footsteps stomped on the floorboards. Seconds later, the door opened and Hagrid's towering figure stood before them. John sank in the shadow of the humongous man but Sherlock stood proud and tall, showing no weakness against the weather.

"Sh'rlock!" the man greeted, embracing his arms to give both of them a hug. John tried to back away but squeaked as his bones were crushed under the weight. Sherlock gave him an its‒not‒a‒crushing‒ hug‒on‒purpose look, but John could barely respond to his gesture behind Hagrid's bulky arms.

Hagrid motioned for the two boys to step inside his home. The furniture was twice the size that it normally would be, and it was specifically built to satisfy Hagrid. A gigantic boarhound dog was curled up next to a roaring fire, and three abnormally large coffee mugs where on the dining table. The whole house seemed to have five rooms squeezed into one, but it had a high level of hospitality.

The Gamekeeper faced John, not knowing who he was after being at school for two and a half months. "So, who's yer friend, Sherlock?" The younger Holmes brother threw his robes over the back of an armchair along with his tie, leaving only his favorite purple shirt to cover his chest.

John nervously glanced at his friend for help. When none came, he did what a Gryffindor was supposed to do; be brave. Chest up, back straight, smile on."Hi," he said, extending his arm out. "I'm John Watson." Didn't that sound familiar?

Two boys sitting in a field. One with short, blond hair and blazing blue eyes. The other, fluffy brown curls, high cheekbones, and a mind worth becoming a scientist.

"I'm John." His smile was so weak then. "John Watson."

The grass was flattened where the one eleven‒year‒old sat with the ten‒year‒old, the younger boy's birthday weeks away. All around, the other green blades swayed behind them, sprouting taller than their shoulders. The hill looking beyond where the sun sank in the west always had freshly mowed grass so everyone could get a perfect view.

Before Sherlock shook his hand, he commented on how the other boy was left‒handed. He showed off his remarkable talent and skill, just from pencil marks and eraser sheds.

He went to shake Sherlock's hand nonetheless, probably because he knew it was polite and proper to shake right hands. And if hadn't, he wouldn't have been introduced to the most brilliant friend he'd ever met.

His flashback was broken by a force so great it crushed his fingers. He came back to reality and tried as best as he could not to break out in tears. Hagrid let go of his hand and John sank into the nearest armchair, hiding his arm under his robes so the bearded man couldn't see.

The chair was so large John could sit crossed‒legged and his knees just scraped the arms. Sherlock gave him the 'I'm sorry' look and leaned back against the other chair with his wrists weaved between each other.

"So how's school been goin' for yeh?" Hagrid asked, proceeding to make tea from a kettle. "I he'rd yeh joined the Quidditch team, John."

John looked up and craned his neck to get a better look at the man. "How did you know about that?"

"Oh please," Sherlock said sarcastically and rolled his eyes. John turned to stare at him, his expression rather offended.

"Sh'rlock told me o' course!" Hagrid beamed, steam spilling out of the top of the teapot. It was letting out a low, faint whistle, and the water was crystal clear as it poured from the spout. "And blimey, do yeh think I'd miss a Quidditch match?"That was stupid on my part, John retorted.

"Speaking of which," Sherlock announced, trying to loosen Watson's mind, "don't you have another game soon, John?"

He took a deep breath before admitting the truth. "Yeah. Friday. But I have another practice on Tuesday."

"Better be prepared then," Hagrid said, checking the tea bags and putting them back in the mugs as they weren't ready yet. "I he'rd it's goin' ter rain." Great, John thought, rolling his eyes. That'll just make it even more difficult to catch the Snitch.

Sherlock and John then carried on to tell Hagrid about how school was going and how they met back home in London. John started to tell him about their Patronus lessons on Saturdays, but Sherlock cut him off and shook his head as a warning. He obviously wanted to keep it as secret as possible. If any rumors spread, surely Dumbledore would be contacted and they'd all be in serious trouble.

The taste of the tea in Sherlock's mouth was burning but equally pleasant. Tea with a splash of honey. A few spoons of sugar. The mug itself was as round as his head, so he had to tilt the bowl to drink like little children do to get the remainder of the milk in their cereal. He could easily slip the entirety of his hand through the handle gap, and when he'd drank as much as he could he set the mug down on the floor.

Fang, Rubeus Hagrid's dog, reluctantly got off the floor to finish what remained in Holmes's cup. He'd only drank about half of the tea, but the dog didn't seem to care and John looked quizzical.

The lion dozed off when Sherlock had an unwilling conversation about Mycroft, staring out the window at the castle just up on the hill through the square window. He noticed some dark clouds overhead so the youngest wizard tugged the fabric of Sherlock's purple shirt, indicating that they should head back to the castle.

Sherlock and John said farewell to Hagrid, thanked him for the tea, and headed back up to the school a few minutes later. "I don't mind yer comin' back any time!" Hagrid insured them, waving his saucer sized hands. John spun around to wave back.

"So why don't you show me then?" John asked, nudging the eagle in the leg.

"What?"

"Your Patronus. You claim you have been practicing, so I want to see."

"Not here," Sherlock whispered, glancing around even though no one was in sight. John felt small sprinkles from the raindrops litter his cloak, but they managed to duck under the archway of the entrance hall before buckets poured from the sky.

John swore he could've spotted a flick of silver from under Sherlock's cloak as they headed up the marble stairs for their common rooms.

The Fat Lady was slightly irritated with John for some reason when he gave her the password, as she was doing nothing but secretly napping and not doing her job. When he went to scramble through the portrait hole, he found it jammed full with students of all ages. He pushed past the crowd and found Lestrade sitting on the arm of one of the chairs by the fireplace, his head in his hands.

"What's going on?" John asked, taking off his cloak and scarf and folding them over his forearm.

"Ugh," Lestrade mumbled, letting his arms drop to his side. Rough life? Watson thought.

"There's a notice on the board. It says that the school is going to have a winter dance this year, a week before Christmas!" He sounded so disgusted.

"So? What's wrong with that?" John set his cloak on the arm right next to where Lestrade was and sat on top of it.

Greg gave him a your‒not‒serious look. "John, you do realize we're first years who barely talk to anyone. You expect us to find someone to go with a month from now?"

"Then just don't go at all," John pointed out, making the solution much simpler.

"Like that'll be any fun…"

John pondered the thought for a minute. "I know who you could go with."

"Who?"

"Molly." At the mention of Molly Hooper's name, Lestrade's eyes lit up a little brighter. "Come on, you're the guy, you have to be the one to ask her."

"We're just friends, John. You get that right…?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Lestrade, we're eleven. Do you seriously think we could be in an actual relationship at our age?" His housemate stared at the floor, both dazed and confused. "Deep down, you know what to do." John gave him the hint, but the taller Gryffindor didn't comprehend. Watson went further into the conversation, bending closer to speak softly in his ear and be the advice giver he always was. "You just have to release your inner lion."

Greg kept shooting bashful glances to Molly at lunch on Tuesday, all the while with John making his eyes go wide and opening his mouth a bit to get him to ask her. Watson kept trying to lip speak without any sound, but Lestrade found it complicated to read his mouth. It was incredibly difficult all together because while John was getting Lestrade to ask Molly, Mary Morstan batted her eyes at the blond while he ate. He could feel the blood rush up to his cheeks, as she was such a distraction from his lunch.

"Oh, me a minute." Molly excused herself from the red and gold house table and went to chat with her fellow badger Henry Knight. When she was out of earshot, Lestrade let out the deepest sigh John ever heard.

"I can't do it…" Likely story.

"Do what?" Sherlock came to join them before John could interject his opinion, carrying nothing in his arms since he'd just had a break from lessons.

"I told Lestrade to ask Molly to the dance, but he keeps chickening out," the shortest boy explained, keeping the story concise.

"Oh, dull."

"What, so you're not going then?" Lestrade asked, flinging a slice of an orange across his plate.

"I don't dance. I'll just keep it as simple as that."

"Well, you don't have to go to dance," Lestrade pointed out.

"Yeah. You could just go for fun." John tried to convince his friend, but Sherlock didn't act impressed.

"I have neither the interest nor time to do such thing. It clearly says in the title of the event what the purpose is, and I have no intention of dancing anytime soon."

"So, you bought your dress robes for nothing then?" I hadn't considered that, Sherlock thought. John was right.

"It would seem so," he responded, grabbing a few cucumbers and walking in the direction of the entrance hall, leaving them to their decisions.

"Go! Right now!"John went back to urging his fellow Gryffindor on. "Henry could snatch her right now if you don't budge in first."

But the ginger left Knight right after and Hooper came back to join them a few moments later, collapsing in the seat next to Greg with a smile on her face. John shot him a look but he backed out, stuffing food into his face instead.

"I just need a bit more time, okay?" Lestrade told John, moving his fingers away from the strap of his bag to defend his point. "You can't expect me to ask her now. The notice just went up a few days ago."

"Wellyeah, but if you wait too long someone else could ask her." John made the obvious statement as they headed to the dungeons for Potions class.

"Okay, so who are you going with then?" Lestrade teased, crossing his arms and shaking his head back and forth in a sassy way.

"I don't know! I have a lot of other things on my mind at the moment. Homework, Patronuses, Quidditch practice later today —"

"Oh, stop worrying about Quidditch so much," Lestrade pointed out. "I'll admit, ever since you blacked out after your first game people have been talking about it..." John sighed, his shoulders sagging and his heart sinking in his chest.

"Thanks…" he mumbled.

"But that's not the point." Greg quickly shook off John's miserable moment. "The point is you are an amazing Quidditch player. Come on, you're playing Hufflepuff on Friday. No offense to Molly, but you're going to kick their butts."

John looked up at Lestrade. "You serious?"

"Course." He thought it was a ridiculous question. Lestrade decided to add a positive remark on their discussion. "It was a nice flip you did off your broom too."John couldn't help but smirk.

"Yeah, but it hurt like hell," he added.

When they reached the correct corridor where the Potions classroom was, they found a mob of students standing around. "Why isn't anyone going in?" Lestrade asked a fellow Gryffindor. His name was Elijah, and he was one of the nicest first years in the school. He had very dark brown eyes and black hair that swept over his forehead.

Elijah pushed past a Slytherin girl with ginger hair who shoved him in the shoulder. "For some reason the door is locked. I don't even think Snape is in there."

The Gryffindors and Slytherins were separating from each other out in the hallway. John pulled out One Thousand Magical Herbs And Fungi from his bag and glared at Irene snickering across the room.

Somebody poked him in his back, and he thought it was Lestrade but knew better when an arm wrapped around his stomach. The unknown classmate's hot breath was felt in John's left ear, and he cringed at someone touching him without permission.

"Don't pass out at your next game," the drawling voice spoke, and Watson smelled Moriarty's Jasmine flowers shampoo he always used. He spun around to face the jerk as he was walking away.

Watson pulled his best concentration face mixed with hate. "What did you say to me?" Jim pivoted like a top on his feet, his mouth open in the shape of an 'O'. The touch on the Gryffindor's wrist was firm, strong with mostly muscle in the hands, and John knew Lestrade was trying to prevent him from losing his temper.

Moriarty brushed off his shoulders and then held his palms near his face. His expression showed both 'don't touch me' and 'don't mess with me.' "Back off Watson."

"No." His answer was flat and fishing. "I want to know what's your problem." A small crowd of first years was grouping around the two boys. Three boys if you count Lestrade, who is trying to stop me from slapping this bastard.

"You're a Muggleborn, are you not?" John looked offended, the corners of his eyes relaxing, and Lestrade's arm was diagonal on his chest now, holding his shoulder fiercely. The expression on his face morphed into puzzled.

The shorter boy's tone dropped to barely audible. "I...No," he suddenly perked up, "I'm a half‒blood."

"Oh please…" Don't you insult me…

That's exactly what Jim did. "John, you're only, and only will be, half the man that I am."

John went to open his mouth, not in an angered way, but in a way that he didn't know how to respond. It was like a lightning bolt had struck his mind and he couldn't speak. It took less than a second for not Watson to react to the comment, but Greg.

"Hey!" The taller and buffer Gryffindor stepped in front of the blond, hiding him in the shadow of the candle lamps. He had one shoulder forward and his spine was stretched out to its full height, making him look like a boxing athlete. Moriarty adjusted the front of his cloak, clearly not impressed and fooled by his schoolmate.

Lestrade threw his robes onto his bag which was slumped on the stone floor. "You can pick on me all you want." He jammed his thumb right under where his heart was. "But don't bully my friends."

"Uh, do you even have any friends, Greg?" Crack went his knuckles clenching together. Lestrade actually stayed quite calm. He finally turned around to continue talking with John and Elijah, and then added to Jim, "Shut it."

"Have it your way." Moriarty wasn't finished with his business. "You know you'll never be able to match up to me either."

The fire had been lit and the Gryffindor was on top of the Slytherin before John even had a chance to brush his fingertips on Lestrade's shirt collar. Greg's tough fist was connecting with Moriarty's cheek so viscously a purple bruise was already forming under his left eye. The lion had his foot on top of the serpent's right arm, forgetting that it left his dominant hand free.

Jim Moriarty's bones smashed into Lestrade's nose, the effect being blood covering the Gryffindor's chin. The taller eleven‒year‒old was on his feet in no matter of time, his pale fingers splattered with the scarlet liquid. John scooped up Lestrade's things in his arms as soon as he realized trouble was brewing and witnessed the punching incident,muttering into his friend's ear, "Come on, we're going to the hospital wing."

"What about you?" he grumbled, pinching his nose with a weird twang in his tone.

"Did you really just ask that?" John gave him the eyebrow. "I'd skip Potions any day of the week."

"What the hell happened?"

Lestrade was sitting up in the hospital wing bed, a tissue held up to his face. It was the fourth time his nose had bled that day, and Sherlock busted into the room, Molly close behind his back.

"Got into a fight," he said obviously, shaking his head in a 'no duh' way and removing the tissue from his nostrils.

"With who?" Molly asked, peeking out from behind Sherlock's arm.

"That little bastard Moriarty." Sherlock dipped his head and pulled up a chair, thinking about a month earlier when John sat in the same situation. He slid his Ravenclaw tie up and down his upper back as Molly settled at the end of the bed. There was a flash of lightning outside and rain poured down on the windows.

"What for? Did he insult us again?" Molly was terrified to ask the question, but she did anyway.

"For sticking his neck up for his friends." A new voice entered the conversation from the door of the ward. All three friends spun around to find a familiar face.

John stood in the arched doorway of the hospital wing, drenched from head to toe and still dressed in his scarlet Quidditch robes. His sandy hair stuck up in all directions, and some of the rain ran down his face. At least he was smart and changed his shoes, Sherlock noticed.

"John," Holmes started, his name coming out as a whole sigh, "you look miserable."

He did. His cheeks were pink from the chilly November air and he was shaking on his knees. John's teeth chattered in his mouth, and he looked like a sad puppy dog with his eyes. He didn't change his gaze from the floor, except when Sherlock said his name.

Lestrade broke the silence. "How was practice?"

"It sucked," John spoke the truth. "We were out there for two and a half hours, one of those hours being pouring rain, lightning everywhere, and thunder rumbling across the grounds. I swear I almost got struck twice." He raised his head to show more emotion. "I couldn't see anything. I nearly knocked out one of my own players!" He broke off with a sneeze.

"Did you catch a cold?" Lestrade frowned.

"Probably," John sniffed, shrugging off the idea like it was nothing. "So, that's why I'm debating quitting."

Even Sherlock looked startled. "What!"

"I don't think I can go on with this. It's too much work. I've still got homework to do. I just feel like I can't get everything done."

"John, you can't do that," Molly encouraged, getting up from the bed and advancing towards him. She could see the water on his face drip down from fifteen feet away. Watson rubbed his eye, feeling one droplet work its way over his eyelashes and into his blue glassy sphere. "You're such a good player. You can't just throw away your remarkable talent."

John turned his head to the side, avoiding the three faces staring at him. Hooper was now standing directly in front of him, her focus on the boy's depressed face.

Why is she grabbing my hand…?

"Please," she whispered, so only he could here, "don't quit. The team needs you." John looked up at her with his gorgeous eyes. She has nice eyes too. "Besides," Molly put in, "we all love watching you play." He grinned.

She led him over to the bed but he didn't sit because of his wet clothes. "What do you say to some hot chocolate?" There were murmurs from the other three friends, and Sherlock's question was interrupted by another pair of footsteps approaching.

"Dear brother, do you always have to get yourself into trouble?"Why is he here? I didn't do anything. Seriously, he needs to stay out of my personal business.

"I didn't do anything, Mycroft." The older Holmes brother carried his umbrella as usual, and he thought Sherlock's comment was an unlikely story.

"It's true," Lestrade butted in, defending the younger Holmes brother. "It was just me and John."

"Well I got the news and couldn't just ignore it," Mycroft boasted, puffing out his chest and strolling over to where the four friends were clumped together. "You know Mummy told me to watch over you closely, Sherlock."

The Ravenclaw squeezed his eyes shut tightly. "Not that closely," he grumbled, shifting his seat so he was blocked from view by John.

"If you'd like," Greg put in, "we can watch over him for you. No sweat for you."

"Don't count on it. Even if you insist. But don't let me catch you in trouble again." He stared darkly around the Gryffindors and single Hufflepuff to address his a swift brush of his shoes on the floor, Mycroft Holmes left the first years to themselves.

The mug in John's hand was warm and the liquid was the perfect temperature. Not too hot, not too cold. He gave Sherlock a thumbs up for his ability to conjure drinks out of thin air. There were even four marshmallows floating on top of the dense chocolate mixture. One for each of the four puzzle pieces of their friendship.