John sighed, slumping into the bench in the Gryffindor table and scowling down at his empty plate. Greg had nothing negative going on in his mind at the moment, waving happily to Mycroft across the room and eating more than one man's share of food. John, however, was just poking around some potatoes, eating barely a few bites. Sherlock was across the room, reading a book when John was looking but when he was not the green eyes bore almost into his soul. Maybe Sherlock could read minds; maybe he could get this over with the easy way.

"Do you want to go flying tonight?" Greg asked.

"No, I've got to talk to Sherlock." John sighed, wishing beyond wishes that he could be on a broomstick rather than having to face Sherlock.

"Ohhh, what are you going to talk about?"

"Something Dumbledore told me after the fight, it's stupid." John shrugged.

"What was it?"

"Do you have to know everything about my life?" John sighed.

"Apparently yes." Greg decided.

"Then I'll tell you that Moriarty could possibly be suspended, and we want to ensure that in any way possible." John pointed out. The smile on Greg's face might have been enough to light up a room, if, of course, you were having close to a sort of good day.

"I thought his parents were tied up in Dark Arts, and that Dumbledore was too scared to expel him." Greg pointed out, but John just shrugged.

"No one in the Dark Arts will stand up to Dumbledore anyway; I just hope they'll actually get it over with this time."

"His expulsion is long overdue." Greg agreed. John saw Sherlock stand up across the room, knowing that if he was going to catch him it was now or never.

"I should go, I'll see you later." John decided, taking a deep breath and jogging through the crowd to catch Sherlock. Greg said something as he dashed off, but thankfully he didn't hear it, probably something about starting a relationship with Sherlock. If only Greg, if only.

"Hey, Sherlock!" John called, pushing impatiently through a pack of third year Slytherins, who all puffed out their chests and started yelling insults, trying to live up to their house's stereotype poorly. Sherlock turned around, looking pleasantly surprised to be chased down. The nervous hope in his eyes was almost enough to make John turn and run.

"Hello John." Sherlock said, stepping aside to let the Slytherins, still jeering among themselves, to pass up the stairs.

"Do you mind if I have a word?" John asked, not daring to look up at him.

"Sure, of course." Sherlock decided, leaning slightly against the stone railing.

"In, private?" John added, trying his best not to lead Sherlock on too much, give him false hope that this would be a snogging session and not actually breaking up. Sherlock nodded, tensing up a little bit but straitening up.

"Where?" he asked. That was a good question, John honestly had no idea where. Too cold to go outside, they couldn't go to their normal secretive classroom, that place was filled with too many happy memories.

"Sixth floor?" John shrugged, deciding that the hallway would suffice. They hiked up the stairs, walking awkwardly beside each other through the many floors. When they got to the sixth floor John's heart was as heavy as lead or maybe something even heavier, like a tractor trailer on steroids. Sherlock was light on his feet, every so often gazing down at John when he thought he wasn't looking, stealing hopeful glances.  They walked a little bit down the corridor, making sure that they couldn't be over heard from the stairwell.

"So, what's on your mind?" Sherlock asked. John took a deep breath, he had planned these words beforehand but now they seemed absolutely pathetic. How could you put something so miserable into words, how could you politely tear down someone's entire world with a couple of chosen words?

"Sherlock, when you were unconscious, after you know, that, I went down to the hospital wing, and Dumbledore was there, waiting for me." John started, shifting his weight from foot to foot to give himself something else to do. Sherlock was listening silently, unable to guess what was coming next.

"He seems to think that you're getting more and more unstable, and that soon you'll be dangerous." John took a deep breath, "and he said that I had to end this." John could pinpoint the exact moment Sherlock's delicate heart shattered, the corridor seemed darker, the air colder, the overall atmosphere plunging into the next generation of depression. John took the dare to look up into Sherlock's face, but immediately regretted it. He wasn't crying, for some reason John wished he would, it would definitely beat the absolute look of defeat plastered along his beautiful face. John wished he would scream, cry, explode right then and there just to fill this sad silence. His eyes, his beautiful emerald eyes, they were dark as a black hole, as hopeless as a chronic disease. His lips parted slightly to draw in a breath, his brain working overtime to try to figure out what John had meant.

"So in fact..." he paused, "we're over?" The words coming from his mouth made it a bazillion times worse, it was official now. 

"It's not my idea, Dumbledore wouldn't let me refuse, and he's scared for both of us." John defended, but he knew nothing he said would cheer Sherlock up the slightest.

"No, that's, that's not fair." He muttered, looking into John's eyes once more. "That's not fair." He repeated, his voice cracking with loss of hope.

"I know, it's not, I'm so sorry, I didn't want it to end, but..." John couldn't say anything more; there was just too much tearing through his life at the moment. This wasn't fair, none of it was, why did Sherlock, the most tortured person he knew, need to suffer even more? Why was the first relationship that felt right have to be severed by minor things like safety and rules? Sherlock had hit the nail on the head, it simply wasn't fair.

"I'm really sorry, I truly am, but this wasn't my choice." John pointed out.

"I know, I know, just, we're already hiding from one teacher, why not all of them?" Sherlock asked in such a hopeful, desperate voice that John wanted to jinx himself to get out of this situation.

"I wish, I really do, but I think this is where it ends." John sighed, holding back the tears now brimming in his eyes. Sherlock took another deep breath, but nodded, holding out his hand with a note of finality.

"Then, John Watson, I bid you goodbye." He decided, looking deep into John's eyes. There were words unspoken, words that both of them were thinking but unable to express. How John loved him, how Sherlock loved John, how the last few months had been the best in their entire existence. Instead of saying those words though, John shook his hand, looking into his eyes one last time and wanting more than a handshake. A hug goodbye, maybe even a small kiss, he wanted something more to remember Sherlock than just the saddest and most lingering handshake in history.

"Bye Sherlock." He agreed. Sherlock took his hand away, stuffing both of his hands into his pockets and walking swiftly down the hallway, his robes billowing behind him and his head bent low.

John stood there for a long while, staring at the spot in space that was once occupied by his life and love, now lost. He wanted to run right back to Sherlock, make him stay with him, cry together, have an all-around emotional catastrophe together. There was a crushing weight in his chest, the guilt, the loss, the sadness, and both he and Sherlock had to fight the same pain alone. Thanks to bloody Dumbledore. John trudged down the hall to the staircases, hoping to see Sherlock somewhere; maybe he could at least try to cheer him up somehow. John felt like punching himself, throwing himself off the staircases and just end this torment, but instead he walked down the stairs, walking to the Portrait Hole and entering silently. Greg wasn't there, which was both good and bad. John didn't want to explain anything but he also didn't want to be alone. But he was alone, now more than ever. John sat in an armchair, blocking out the noise and life of the common room and staring into the burning flames. There was a metaphor there, the logs being his life and the flames being, well, life. Burning a hole through everything he loved and cared about, even things that had once seemed invisible were now just sparking embers in the bottom of the fire. Every time he blinked it was like Sherlock was there, his broken expression haunting him more than any ghost imaginable. Sherlock, oh poor Sherlock, where was he now? John didn't want to think about the pain flowing through his tortured veins at the moment, he was the victim here, not John, even though he made a great deal of wining about it. John was the murderer, Sherlock was the victim, and Dumbledore's arrangement was the blade. John stayed there all night, not a wink of sleep present, staring into the flames with a blank expression, the only sign he was actually alive was his grunt of good night to Greg, who didn't question his motives thankfully. When breakfast came John was sad, angry, sleep deprived, and overall done with people.

"John, did you stay up all night?" Greg asked, digging through his bag to search for the schedule.

"I guess so." He sighed.

"What's wrong?" Greg asked nervously.

"Just stressed out I guess, nothing wrong." John shrugged, lying of course.

"What did you decide with Moriarty?" Greg asked.

"Apparently they're letting him go for some stupid reason; he's stuck in detention for this whole week though."

"I hope he suffers." Greg decided. John sighed, realizing he didn't have his homework done for Care of Magical Creatures. He'd have to copy Greg's over breakfast.

"So, anything good happen with Sherlock?" Greg asked with a smile. But at the mention of Sherlock John felt like he wanted to break down into sobs, something he's managed not to do so far, by some miracle.

"Nothing." John muttered, leading the way to the portrait hole to end the conversation straight away. As predicted Sherlock was absent from breakfast, which only made John worry more about him. Was he okay or was he suffering even more than John was?

"Mate you look horrible." Greg decided.

"Well sorry I'm not runway ready, I'm tired." John groaned.

"Wonder why." Greg sighed. John didn't even bother trying to eat anything; he just stared over to the Ravenclaw table without noticing.

"If you're looking for Sherlock he's not there." Greg pointed out, snapping John out of his happy obliviousness and into the terrible world of reality.

"Can I copy your homework?" John asked, pulling his empty sheet of parchment out of his bag and scribbling answers down as fast as humanly possible. The day went by sluggish, but the one class John was dreading the most was Charms, the one he knew he would be sharing with Sherlock. Would he even show up? Would they talk or would he sit on the other side of the room? He was nervous to see how Greg would act to Sherlock's distance, he's probably make up his own theories, that they were awkward after a first kiss probably. Just the opposite in fact. Lunch came and went and still no sign of Sherlock, which was sort of normal. The last period was Charms, which was looming over John and making even Potions go by in a snap. Before he knew it they were headed up to the classroom, bags on their shoulders and, in Greg's case, boredom in his heart. But for John he wasn't bored, how could you be when you're downright terrified of the first encounter with Sherlock after the official break up. When they entered the classroom they were one of the first ones there, surprisingly. There were a couple people dotted around, but it was free of Sherlock for now. They took their usual desks near the back of the classroom, trying to blend in to not be caught talking when they shouldn't be. After a while Sherlock appeared in the doorway, looking, if possible, worse than John. His eyes were red, dark, and raw, he moved stiffly and kept his head down, keeping his hands in his pockets as he skirted along the perimeter of the desks, taking one of the more secluded ones and hiding behind a book.

"Hey Sherlock, why don't you sit by us?" Greg called, making John want to hit him over the head with one of the desks. But the only people who looked were a couple of nameless peers, and Sherlock didn't make a move to suggest he had heard Greg.

"What's up with him?" Greg muttered, watching the back of Sherlock's head.

"I don't know, maybe he's stressed too?" John muttered, but he didn't have the time or focus to make up a reasonable excuse.

"Ya, maybe." Greg shrugged. That class was the most miserable class ever, his eyes kept wandering to the back of Sherlock's curly hair, which was bent over and secluded. Obviously he wasn't taking this nearly as well, and compared to John's state of mind that really had to be bad. Greg kept jabbing him in the arm every time he was caught staring at Sherlock, but he was so out of the loop that it was almost sad. When class was over Sherlock dumped all of his things into his bag and raced out the door the second Flitwick announced that they could leave, and by the time John and Greg got out of the class he was completely gone.