When Christmas Morning came John woke up with a stack of presents loaded at the foot of his bed, making his spirits lift immensely. He jumped to a sitting position, ripping open the first package, which was from Greg.
"Greg, get up!" he cried, pulling out a new set of broomstick polish from the remains of paper. Greg groaned, but when he realized that his feet were weighed down by treasures hidden in paper, he bolted right up.
"Presents!" he said happily, tearing through a new pair of socks from his mother with a bit of a disappointed sigh.
"Thanks for this." John added, holding up the bottle of polish. His broom was getting a little bit dirty after all; he was going to have to buy some polish himself after a while. Greg just grunted, opening his presents with the speed of lightning. John, meanwhile, opened a huge bag from his parents, filled with boxes of muggle candy that painfully reminded John of Sherlock, some Tastykakes, cans of soda, and, his favorite, beef jerky, the salty crappy kind they never had available at Hogwarts. He got a book from Mycroft, a planner that, if you didn't complete the tasks written down it started screaming. Very thoughtful of course. Finally John was knee deep in destroyed paper and presents while Greg was biting the head off of a recently opened and still struggling Chocolate Frog.
"Merry Christmas." John said with a smile, tearing off a strip of jerky and eating it hungrily. There were just some things wizards couldn't perfect, and beef jerky was one of those things. Mycroft arrived a little bit later, happily receiving John's present, the book of muggle algebra, which, as predicted, he was absolutely blown away by.
"Absolutely brilliant, the things Muggles come up with!" he exclaimed. Greg had given him some candy and a book about potions; he was obviously a nerd to anyone who knew him.
"Is Sherlock up?" John asked.
"I left him the presents our parents sent outside his door, but they were still there when I left." Mycroft sighed.
"I really hope he's okay." John muttered.
"He's fine, come on John, it's Christmas, let's have a snowball fight or something." Greg suggested.
"It has to be in the negatives out there." John pointed out, scrubbing the frost from the window in a failed attempt to see the grounds.
"We'll just bundle up then." He shrugged.
"That sounds like suicide." Mycroft debated.
"Well if one of you losers gets frost bite we'll go back in."
"What about breakfast?" John pointed out.
"What on earth are you eating?" Mycroft asked, just noticing the strip of dried beef in John's hand.
"It's a muggle tradition, beef jerky." John said, with no intentions of sharing of course.
"That's repulsive." Mycroft decided, but John was pretty much done with listening to him whine about everything.
"Let's go outside." Greg pleaded, and before they knew it the three of them were headed outdoors, trudging along like living balls of fabric and warming enchantments. The moment they pried open the doors John regretted it immediately, but he definitely was a nice change to get some fresh air, even if it was frigid. The whole snow ball fight was two against one, unfair odds but Mycroft didn't really count. Pretty much every snowball from him missed or didn't hurt at all. Greg's on the other hand literally whipped from the makeshift base, smacking John in the face every time. It was times like this when he needed backup from someone, because every time he tried to return fire he was forced back down by snowballs killing him one by one. By the time lunch rolled around not only was he hungry but he was soaking wet, freezing, and cut up by shards of ice cutting through the soft snow. They headed up to the castle, where there was a spread of food lined up for everyone to enjoy. The few people that showed up were giving the three odd looks, as if they thought they were crazy for venturing outside in such weather. But they were right, of course, they were perfectly insane. Umbridge, who had apparently stayed over break, was giving them a disapproving fake smile from at the staff table, sipping from her goblet and not eating anything. John checked once again for Sherlock, in false hope that he might actually show up this time, but it was in vain. Since Mycroft was sitting with them the Ravenclaw table was empty except for two second years, who were flicking food at each other with spoon catapults.
"So, what should we do for the rest of the day?" Greg asked.
"No more chess." John said at once, making Mycroft frown a little bit.
"Alrighty then Mr. Happiness." Greg muttered.
"Could you help me figure out some of that math?" Mycroft asked hopefully, as if he was asking John to go to Mordor and back or something.
"Oh, I guess I could help a little bit but I doubt I'll be any good. I never learned above fifth grade." John defended. Mycroft seemed to be in a better mood after that, and once their meals were finished and their clothes dry they sat in the common room and struggled with the math book.
"Why are there letters? I thought math was numbers?" Mycroft pointed out as John copied a problem from the book.
"It's a variable, could be anything really, so you have to use reverse operations to figure it out." John pointed out, briefly remembering how to do this from school.
"So that X could be a 1 or a one million?" Mycroft clarified. Greg was just as interesting in this as Mycroft was, both of them being pureblooded so they were fascinated by the 'magicless magic' of the muggle world. The workbook took up the entire evening, which was quite annoying and gave John a splitting headache, but whenever he wanted to stop Mycroft just flipped to the next chapter, always twice as hard as the one before. Finally dinner came, it couldn't have come any later either, John was about to 'accidently' throw the book in the fireplace. He doubted even fire would want to touch it though. The dinner was a feast, with one long table set up in the entire hall since there were so few people. John, Greg, and Mycroft all huddled together, trying to sit on the other side of the table from where Umbridge sat, all judging and miserable of course. Dumbledore was also there; his silver beard glowing in the light of the enchanted ceiling, but it didn't feel like an honor to dine with the headmaster, more like a curse. He was merry of course, filled with Christmas spirit, but inside, truly inside him, was an evil that loved to break happy couples up for their own 'safety'. What rubbish. John also had to sit in between Mycroft and Greg, so that Umbridge didn't get suspicious, and they weren't allowed to interact too much in fear that she'd be on the hunt like a blood hound. The meal was fabulous, of course, with new foods for Christmas like roasted hams, cranberry sauces, and other stuff that wasn't usually present in the regular meals. They made an effort to leave as soon as possible, hating the whole atmosphere of pretending to hate the people they loved and like the people they hated. They went back to the Gryffindor common room, but John was sure he wasn't going to do anymore math today. Greg and Mycroft were back to their usual flirting, and John decided that he should probably leave them alone for Christmas night. He climbed up to the dorms, trying to make himself smile and actually feel happy, but it came a lot harder than it should have. He saw there was one unopened present still stuffed under his bed, Sherlock's, the book on spells and stuff. John sighed; it was worth a shot to actually go give it to him, right? Maybe there was a chance he could cheer Sherlock up in some way. John grabbed the present, putting on a determined face and storming back through the common room, ignoring the questions about his destination from Mycroft and Greg and walking out of the portrait hole. He wasn't going to take no for an answer, he was done worrying about Sherlock, done feeling sorry for Sherlock, he was going to go in there and demand to be heard. If he could ever get in.
"A box without hinges, key or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid." said the eagle doorknocker, looking quite bored with his job. John didn't need to think for this one, his dad loved to tell this to them when they were little, from his favorite book or something.
"It's an egg! I know that one, I know it!" John said triumphantly, looking around as if there was someone to share his victory with. Instead the door just opened, but he could tell that maybe, even for a brass doorknocker, the eagle was slightly proud of John for finally being able to get into the common room himself. The room was dark, the fire was going but there was no one around to light oil lamps or candles. The moonlight was shining into the room through the glass windows, making it eerie yet slightly romantic, that was if Sherlock was alive, willing, and not about to chop John's head off with the closest object he could find. He was about to start climbing the stairs when he heard dragging footsteps coming down them, someone was approaching. At first John panicked, hoping it wasn't one of the other boys that would surely kick him out for entering without an escort or an invitation, but when the moonlight hit the figure it was none other than a very tired, zombie like version of Sherlock.
"John!" he said suddenly, stopping in his tracks and staring at John with shock. He was actually kind of scary, thinner than John had ever seen him, the skin tight on his face, his eyes sunken in and red, his hair a tangled mess on one side and on the other sticking to his face. His robes hung loosely around him and looked like they hadn't been changed in years, but the look in his eyes told John it was the same Sherlock that he had so helplessly fallen for.
"I brought you a present." John muttered, suddenly finding this one of the most awkward encounters of his life. Hi, sorry I haven't talked or went looking for you since I dumped you, here's a present for you troubles.
"Oh." Sherlock said in a weak voice. He was staring at John in a sort of transfixed way, whether that was good or bad he couldn't tell, but it was definitely kind of creepy. "I have one too." He dashed back to the dorms before John could do anything to talk or move, as if he was simply looking for an excuse to leave. After a couple of seconds Sherlock was back, his hair obviously having been hastily brushed and his eyes rubbed around to try to look close to human. He was carrying a small package in his hand, awkwardly stepping back to the landing in which he once stood, not seeming to make any attempt in moving. John's stomach twisted nervously, he had absolutely no idea what to say, but just the sight of Sherlock was enough to make his heart stop. He didn't want to point out how horrible Sherlock looked, or the breakup or the melt down or anything that could be considered controversial. He just walked slowly up to the figure on the landing, holding out the present at arm's length away, as if he came closer Sherlock would start jinxing him. 
"There you go." John said with tone of finality. Sherlock reached for the present like a suspicious dog, timid but desperate. He handed John his present also, which was light and felt like fabric. Neither of them opened them, they just kind of looked at each other, both feeling a pull in their chests, as if magnetic.
"I'm sorry." John said after a while, not knowing how else to break this miserable silence. Sherlock didn't say anything, but he averted his eyes to the floor, standing stone still as if a Medusa victim. There was nothing he could say either, both of them were just waiting their breath and time. Dumbledore should be happy now, look what he cut their relationship down to, three words and standing around.
"What did I do wrong John?" Sherlock asked in a small voice, sounding like a sad little kid. John's heart broke like ice getting hit with a mallet, he sounded so accusing and so broken.
"You didn't do anything, this wasn't my choice." John assured.
"There wasn't anything I wouldn't do for you, and yet one teacher's opinion and I'm back on the streets." Sherlock sighed, looking back up at John with watering green eyes. John wanted to step closer, to comfort him with a hag or merely lessening the space between them.
"I thought I had to." John muttered.
"You know I don't want to hurt you, I know I'm the monster they make me out to be, but it would've been nice to just see your face in that week."
"You're not a monster Sherlock, you're anything but, I just..." John sighed. "I don't have an excuse, I really don't, but I want you to forgive me. It's been killing me just as much..."
"Hearts don't break even John." Sherlock pointed out. John nodded, fiddling with the package in his hands and trying to ignore the pain in Sherlock's voice. He was right, John may have been saddened by this break up but Sherlock was being emotionally tortured by it. He was hiding from humanity, thinking he wasn't good enough, not worthy of romance, friendship, or even the acquaintance of the man he so desperately loved. So John took a step up, and Sherlock took a step down, slowly but surely making their way towards each other with each step. And when they were close, one step away, so close that they stared right into each other's eyes and John could hear his deep, panicked breaths, Sherlock dropped the present and slowly leaned forward, and after what felt like ages his lips were once again where they should be, on John's. It didn't take long for whatever was in the wrapping paper to be dropped along with the book, John grabbing Sherlock's face and pulling him down farther, knowing this was probably the worst thing you could do with an ex but the best thing for both of them at the moment. Sherlock's lips tasted like an awful mix of every flavor of Jolly Rancher and morning breath, something that, if in any other situation, would make John throw up, but somehow it only made him step up onto the step Sherlock was on. The Ravenclaw wrapped his arms around John's waist, breaking the fraction of space that was between them for good. There was absolutely no part of John's exploding brain telling him not to do this, not to get thrown into the pit of despair and loss with the love of Sherlock. He would get expelled, get killed, but at least he'd die knowing that he was with Sherlock and Sherlock was with him, and they were both happy. Heck, just kill him right now; he'd die with a smile on his face and Sherlock in his arms, which was about the best way to go. He ran his fingers through the tangled mess of curls on Sherlock's hair, melting into the kiss. He was truly alive, more free and fearless than flying, more accepted than in his own household, more in love than with every possible girl or guy on the face of this Earth. John would've loved for it to go on forever, but Sherlock pulled away abruptly and stared at John with fear.
"Don't tell Dumbledore." He said quickly, breathing deeply. His eyes darted around the room nervously and with that he ran up the stairs, forgetting the present on the stairs.