"Not to point anything out, but you were practically screaming for Sherlock, the whole common room heard." Greg pointed out with a bit of a laugh. John groaned, looking around at the judging student's eyes.

"Is it time for dinner?" John asked with a yawn.

"Just about, and I got some complaints about noise. What the heck were you dreaming?" Greg asked.

"Oh, nothing, just one of those dreams you wish you could forget." John shrugged.

"Um..."

"Deadly dreams Greg, not, anything else." John pointed out with a sigh. Greg nodded, helping John up and walking to the Portrait Hole.

"I am hungry." He decided.

"I'm not, I'm tired." John pointed out as he climbed out.

"You just slept!"

"Apparently not." John sighed.

"Now the whole common room thinks you like him back." Greg pointed out with a laugh.

"I don't like him and he doesn't like me, okay?" John asked, truly annoyed of hearing the same repetitious theory over and over again.

"It's totally normal to have a crush, it's nothing to be ashamed of I assure you." Greg said.

"Greg, I am seriously trying not to punch you but it's very tempting." John sighed, jumping down the last couple of steps onto the entrance hall floor. Greg shut up, thankfully, when they got into the Great Hall, which was full with starving kids just returning from Hogsmeade. It was cold as well, the great oak doors letting the cool air creep in from outside. John didn't see Moran or Moriarty, to his absolute delight. Greg went over to talk to Mycroft, but John didn't see Sherlock anywhere. So he walked to the Gryffindor table and sat down with a frown, hating feeling lonely. It was one of those things where everyone knows you have friends, but once they leave you automatically think you have to prove that you're not a loner your entire life. He couldn't believe Sherlock lived his whole life like this. Greg returned a little bit later, thankfully, and sat beside John with a smile.

"Don't be happy." John groaned.

"Why not?" Greg asked.

"Because I'm tired." John pointed out.

"Oh yes, sorry about that." Greg groaned, rolling his eyes. John poked at his pile of mashed potatoes without the intention of actually eating them. The dream was bothering him more than he let even himself believe; he knew Sherlock wouldn't actually do that, but what if Dumbledore was right? That Sherlock would be the one to bring John his untimely death? Rubbish, Sherlock wouldn't hurt John if he could help it, and maybe he does get a little worked up, it would never be intentional. And if the time does come when Sherlock starts to lose it he could just tell John to leave, and he would. He wondered where Sherlock was now, sitting behind drawn curtains in his four poster, day dreaming and eating Jolly Ranchers? Or in the Forbidden Forrest, picking fights with Blast Ended Skrewts? Maybe it was good for them to have time apart, to think and all that. John wondered if Moriarty's snowball hadn't interrupted them what would've happened. One stupid snowball might have screwed up John and Sherlock's second official kiss, and what a bloody waste that was.

"Earth to John?" Greg said, poking John in the side with his elbow.

"What?" John groaned.

"Just thought you'd want to know that your hair is in your potatoes." Greg pointed out. John vaulted up, rubbing at his bangs with his fingers and feeling that Greg was right. He cursed under his breath, rubbing his napkin over his forehead as best he could without looking like more of an idiot than necessary.

"I guess I'm done here then, see you later." John decided.

"You haven't eaten a thing!" Greg pointed out.

"I don't care, I've been worse." John sighed.

"Here!" Greg said, just in time for John to wheel around and get hit with a flying roll. He caught it before it could hit the ground, waving his thanks at Greg before running up the steps two at a time. Whenever someone was walking towards him he would duck his head away, hoping it wasn't too painfully obvious that he had gotten his dinner in his hair. When he got back to the common room he went immediately to the bathroom, grabbing a paper towel and looking at himself in the mirror. His entire forehead, as predicted, was covered in potatoes, which he scrubbed away with a frown. You are what you eat, but in this case he hadn't eaten anything, so I guess you are what you keep on your plate for a couple of minutes. John had this random thought of Sherlock being a giant Jolly Rancher, with the curls, cheek bones, and everything. He pushed the thought away, laughing to himself never the less. When he was all cleaned up he decided that maybe he would just sit up in his bed and read for a little bit, clam himself down so he could get the sleep he very much need. His bag was still on the floor near the table, so he picked it up, along with the hat and scarf and headed up to the dorms. They were empty, of course, and the moon was out already due to the winter nights. John turned on an oil lamp and changed quickly into his pajamas, burying himself under the covers with his Quidditch book. It was nothing much, a biography about Viktor Krum. He usually just watched the Wronski Feint over and over again, hoping that maybe, one day, he could be that player, faking out the other seeker. But tonight he stared at the book and only saw Sherlock, his skin peeling into flames and laughing as John suffered. It Sherlock, anyone who knows him well would know that he would do anything to protect the rare few he called friends, but it bothered John. He had never seen Sherlock as the type to kill, only a teddy bear that needed protection to the highest level. He'd never approach him with his suspicions though, that would be quite a cheery visit. Hey Sherlock, you're not going to blow me to bits with your secret destructive force because you got upset right? Sherlock would probably blow him up just for saying that. Sherlock. That was pretty much the only thing ever on his mind, Sherlock this, Sherlock that, the beautiful, destructive Ravenclaw with a knack for hiding his problems from the rest of the world. John would kill to be with Sherlock right now, holding him in his arms, curled together in front of the fire. But the very idea of Sherlock going for that made him laugh sadly, Sherlock was more the type to throw objects in the fire to see how well they would burn. John sighed, shutting the book finally and deciding that it wasn't worth pretending like he could ever be as good as Viktor. He flicked his wand at the oil lamp, which shut off obediently, and buried his head into his pillow.

                When John woke up the sun was up, which was a nice movie moment if he wasn't the most unattractive sleeper the world has ever seen. He groaned, checking his watch on the bedside table, almost nine thirty in the morning. Thankfully though, John didn't feel the need to sleep for well over a week, jumping out of bed for his last free day. Unfortunately the weight of the homework he had to do came crashing down on him, but he pushed that thought away for a little while, changing into a fresh pain of robes and stuffing his wand and snitch in his pocket. He didn't know why he kept the snitch on him, seemed like a stupid way to get caught, but it was always a good way to relieve the boredom of the castle in the winter. When he got to the Great Hall he saw Greg sitting alone at the table, buttering up a fresh stack of pancakes very enthusiastically. The sight of food made John's stomach rumble, having missed dinner the previous night.

"Hello Greg." He muttered, sinking into the open spot next to his friend.

"You slept forever; I didn't know it was possible." Greg decided.

"I was tired; I thought I made that clear." John pointed out.

"You're always the last to go to bed and the first to wake up, why the change of heart?"

"I'm never either of those, you're the one that sleeps until 10 in the morning." John pointed out.

"I was with Mycroft."

"When?"

"Last night. He came over and we just talked and stuff, nothing much but it was still better than actually going to sleep."

"Where was Sherlock?" John asked curiously.

"No idea, it's not like he always sticks around with us." Greg pointed out. John nodded; sure it wasn't anything to worry about. John loaded his plate up with whatever was in reach, waffles, eggs, bacon, and hash browns.

"You're hungry too." Greg observed as John started eating ravenously.

"Good job Greg, I'm happy you can spot that out." John said sarcastically between bites.

"Fancy some flying after breakfast?" Greg asked, making John almost choke on his breakfast.

"It's frigid out there!" he pointed out.

"Not if you wear the right clothes." Greg defended.

"Even so, it's really cold, not even quidditch is going on now!" John pointed out.

"Well Mycroft and I are going out, so you can come if you like." Greg shrugged.

"Is Sherlock coming?" John asked.

"Doubt it, unless you go of course, then he'll jump right in." Greg guessed.

"Oh will you give it up already?" John sighed.

"So you'll come?" Greg asked hopefully.

"Yes, I'll come." John agreed, not very enthusiastic though. When his plate was scraped clean and his cup drained, John and Greg ran up to the common room to retrieve their brooms, gloves, hats, and other cold weather precautions. John changed into a pair of junk robes from fourth year, much too short but perfect for getting dirty. They headed down to the Entrance Hall where they were supposed to meet Mycroft, and, as predicted, he was leaning against the wall, Sherlock scowling beside him. Mycroft had his broom beside him, polished up and ready to go. Sherlock didn't have a broom but was dressed to go outside, his cloak draped over his shoulders and a scowl that softened ever so slightly at the sight of John.

"Are you flying?" John asked.

"No." he said simply.

"Fair enough, don't want a repeat of last time." John decided.

"Which was totally not my fault." Sherlock pointed out. John rolled his eyes, but he knew Sherlock was right. He had been the one to push the broom, but Sherlock was the one going slower than a grandfather snail with Arthritis. 

"Let's not have a repeat of that please." Mycroft decided. John nodded, not having enjoyed being thrown off of his broom.

"So you'll just be spectating then?" Greg asked. Sherlock nodded with determination, eyeing the racing brooms with fear.

"Fair enough I guess, let's get this over with." John agreed, pulling on all of his winter apparel to fight the cold wind and snow in the outside world. They pushed open the great oak doors, shivering immediately but hopping on their brooms. Unfortunately flying isn't the greatest way to warm up, especially for hands gripped on the handles, holding on for dear life even when you feel like your fingers will chip away if something hits them. John had two pairs of gloves on though, his fingerless leather quidditch gloves pulled forcefully over the distributed Gryffindor winter gloves. Mycroft and Greg shot off towards the stadium, racing apparently, while John stuck around while Sherlock enchanted his feet to walk in the deep snow. 

"Want a ride?" he asked, hovering to eye level.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking, thank you." Sherlock decided with a bit of an attitude.

"No need to be hostile, just asking." John defended. Sherlock started walking towards the stadium, bag slung over his shoulder and a Ravenclaw scarf tied tightly around his neck.

"Are you coming to do homework or something?" John asked, following him at the extremely slow pace he was going.

"I thought we already established that I was done with all my homework." Sherlock pointed out.

"I haven't started mine yet, I'll do that this afternoon." John decided.

"Well don't come crying to me for help, because I will not listen." Sherlock decided.

"Oh don't pretend you don't like being the smart one."

"Mycroft's the smart one."

"And compared to us mortals you two are both wisdom gods." John decided.

"That's true, yes." Sherlock agreed.

"You're in a bad mood today."

"How could you tell?" Sherlock snapped.

"The way you take everything I say offensively and scowl at everything."

"that's just a normal day." Sherlock defended.

"Well I guess I'll leave you to your scowling, Greg's got the quaffle." John decided, shooting off to where the two were already starting a one on one scrimmage.