Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1717358.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Greaserlock, Potterlock, Alpha_Sherlock, Omega
      John, Crack_Fic, Smut, Teenlock, Knotting
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-31 Words: 3926
****** Vos Vocatis Me Febre ******
by Belladonna_Q
Summary
     In 1952, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet at Hogwarts.
     Read the tags and there you go.
Notes
     This started as a thing on my Tumblr that dissolved into complete and
     utter crack. I wrote it slightly drunk and in one night.
     Disclaimer: I have a basic knowledge of Harry Potter, having read the
     books and seen the movies years ago. There's probably mistakes in the
     lore so I'm gonna call the HP universe an AU.
     Drunk me does not make a good researcher. So.. uh... yeah.
See the end of the work for more notes
John’s mother hovered by the door; quiet and meek as always, her long blonde
hair pulled tightly into a bun, sharp blue eyes standing out against her soft,
round features. She finally approached as John made his way to the door,
standing stiffly as she began to fuss with his tie.
“You’ve got your trunk?” She asked, eyes downcast, fingers smoothing over his
collar.
“Yes, mother.”
“And your books, and wand…”
“Yes,” John catches her hands, shaking hands, and lowers them carefully. “I’ll
be alright, mother.”
His mother takes a step back, bright eyes lifting and observing her son. She
was trying too hard to smile.
“I’ve packed them for you. Six vials, John. You take one teaspoon every week—“
“I remember.”
“It’s important, John. You can’t miss—“
“I know.” He says firmly, quietly, feeling his mother tense against him as his
father approaches from around the hall.
“I’ll be back for Christmas.” John promises and his mother smiles wetly and
pulls away from him as his father approaches, clasping his arm tightly. His
world shifts, his mother’s face blurring into nothingness.
Apparating always made John sick, but damned if he were to show it before his
father. It’s raining, droplets smudging his glasses as they make their way,
John’s trunk in tow. His father motions towards the Platform of the King’s
Cross Station.
“You know what to do.” Is all he says and John nods. By now he’s well
acquainted with the barrier.
“Right then.” John’s father opens an umbrella, covering only himself, and
about-faces, turning the corner and disappearing into the dark. John swallows
hard, the relief is incredible.
“Freak! Apologize!”
John turns, the voice a few meters behind him, to see a young dark-skinned girl
across from a dark haired boy.
The girl’s cheeks are bright red with anger as she sweeps her scarf, Ravenclaw,
John notes, around her neck.
“You hardly deserve it.” Comes the unimpressed response, and John’s mouth drops
as a wand is lifted and pointed directly at the girl’s face.
John’s momentarily frozen, as if he were struck with an immobulus spell. His
eyes take into account the dozens of passing muggles, some oblivious, some
curious, passing the two on the platform.
The girl looks stunned, before “Go on then! Prove me right!”
He makes his way over, trunk forgotten, and grabs the boy’s arm and pulls it
down to his side. He’s taller, but not necessarily older, and looks stunned at
John’s hold.
“Are you out of your bloody minds?” He hisses, shooting both filthy looks. “Are
you trying to get a howler!?”
The girl uses the opportunity to grab her rucksack and speckled owl, brass cage
clanging, and make her way to nine-and-three-quarters.
John shoves the arm away, and the other boy tucks his wand neatly into his
jacket pocket. “It was merely intimidation.” Comes the snipped response as John
turns to retrieve his trunk.
“Bloody stupid, is what it is.” He mutters, as the other boy comes behind him.
“What, haven’t you got any bags?” John asks suddenly, noticing the boy’s empty
arms.
“My brother had them sent up.” Comes a bored tone.
Well, that must be nice. John shakes his head and makes his way, wheel of his
trunk wobbling behind him. He glances at the other again, trailing one step
behind him.
“You aren’t a first year, are you?”
The other made a face. “Of course not, what makes you say that?”
“Just haven’t seen you before.”
“I’m a transfer from Durmstrang. And you’re a fifth year Gryffindor with a
knack for Quiddich and Charms.”
How?… John pauses.
“You’re staring.”
John’s face heats as he turns. “Am not.”
“What’s your name?”
“John Watson,” he mutters. “Yours?”
“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”
“Well, Sherlock Holmes,” John stops just before the barrier and motions. “After
you.”
--
It was unusual, it seemed, to receive a transfer student so late in ones’s
magical education. The headmaster Albus Dumbledore read and reread the crisp,
sharp letter Sherlock handed him. Sherlock’s arms were crossed and he lazed
against the door of the headmaster chamber. Bored and disgruntled, Sherlock
heaved a sigh of utter petulance as the other neatly tucked said letter away in
his robes, and motioned toward the young man.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, it seems you have connections to those in the ministry.”
“A minor connection.” Sherlock correctly tightly, as the wizard made his way
toward a stained-glass cabinet.
“I suppose I won’t be told the reason for your… sudden departure from
Durmstrang?” And at that Sherlock shrugged, a light smirk on his lips.
“Never matter,” the headmaster continued, tugging a cabinet open and retrieving
a brown, well-worn object from its hold.
Sherlock frowned and glared at the article. “You’re joking.” Sherlock said
flatly, nary a question in the tone.
“Now, Mr. Holmes,” a brief smile tugging, “Everyone at Hogwarts is sorted into
houses…”
“This is ridiculous, I’m a fifth year. I am not a child…”
The headmaster looked amused as he approached and held out the hat in both
hands. Although he stood just a mere inch or two taller than Sherlock, the boy
felt slight intimidated as he stood his ground. He reached and Sherlock
grimaced, the hat dropping on his head.
“Ah!” The sorting hat rasped, and Sherlock flinched, frozen as the headmaster
gave a chuckle and tilted his head, waiting.
“Interesting…Very interesting. Pure blood… And clever oh yes Mr. Holmes, so
very clever aren’t you?” The sorting hat shifted, as if it glanced at
Dumbledore. “Bit too clever, Albus.”It muttered, as if Sherlock weren’t
directly seated under it. “Very difficult.”
How could this be difficult? The hat’s only job was to decide. And what did it
matter what bloody house he was in? It was hardly important.
“Oh?” It queried, and Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Not difficult? Not important?
Well, you are a paradox, Mr. Holmes. Intelligence without wisdom. Ambitious
without motivation. Protective and loyal but without…” It hesitated as Sherlock
tensed. “…anyone to be loyal to--”
“Alright, enough!” Sherlock reached and the hat bellowed, “Slytherin!” as
Sherlock yanked it off, tossing it to the professor. He smoothed a hand through
his hair in an attempt to seem unruffled, even as his heart galloped sharply.
“Excellent!” The professor placed the hat gently on the table as he clapped his
hands once. “Slytherin it is.”
“Yes, fine.” Sherlock all but barked, crossing arms back around his chest once
more.
“Slytherins are cunning, resourceful and…” Sherlock glanced up at the pregnant
pause. “… have a certain disregard for the rules.” The half-moon glasses all
but twinkled. Sherlock frowned, opening his mouth to respond when the
headmaster shuffled toward, guiding Sherlock to the door with a not-so-gentle
shove.
“Your chambers are located in the dungeons, under the Black Lake. Your prefect
will meet you there.”
“I—“
“Good day Mr. Holmes.”
“But I—“
The door swiftly swished shut with a wave of a hand and Sherlock sighed into
the wood.
--
The emerald glow was off putting, but for being in the dungeons he supposed it
could have it worse off.
“…and we have common room study hours from 6 to 8 every evening, with
exceptions made on match days.” His prefect rattled, demonstrating the common
room.
He blinked. “Match days?”
Jayne…Jaynine(?) smiled broadly. “Oh yes,” she said, beaming and waving a hand
to a heavily bronzed trophy wall against the fireplace. “Quiddich matches. You
must attend to support our club.” She said, Irish tone bright.
“Hm.” That sounded… annoying. “Might I see my quarters now?”
“Ohh,” she stepped back and put a thoughtful hand to her chin. “First thing’s
first Sherlock, you need some proper robes.”
Robes? He put a hand go his leather jacket. “I’m perfectly fine with what I
have.”
“Ah, well.” She made a ‘tsk’ noise, reminiscent of a scolding mother. “You look
like a muggle, Sherlock. And we certainly can’t have that.” He felt a nerve
tick in his jaw. “Hogwarts is fairly strict I’m afraid on uniforms. If you go
off sites to Hogsmeade, or for holiday, that’s …acceptable. But for classes, in
our chambers, you’ll need robes. I’ll get you some, I’m certain we have extras.
Oh! And scarves too!”
“I despise scarves.” He muttered as his fellow Slytherin sauntered through the
halls.
“This way, Sherlock!”
He muttered a curse, of the muggle variety, as he followed behind her.
--
“Did you hear? The King died.” John stated suddenly at the table, standing up
and spreading his palms, smoothing the newspaper down.
Greg wiped his chin, swallowing his supper, and gave a cursory glance at the
newsprint before snorting. “That’s not The Daily Prophet.”
John rolled his eyes, “No, it’s from London. My mother sends them to me.”
“Muggle papers?” Greg took another sharp bite from his bread. “Why would I have
heard about muggle news?” At a second glance, “John, the pictures don’t even
move, why would you even bother?”
John took off his glasses and rubbed his nose, before swipping the pages from
the table and folded them awkwardly, stuffing them into his bag. “Forget it.”
He muttered as he settled his glasses back on his face.
“How did he die?”
John spun, the deep voice behind him startling him more than he would ever
admit. Greg turned briefly as well, giving a not so subtle up and down stare to
the student before them.
“Uh-“
“The King, you said?” Sherlock approached and nodded towards John’s bag.
“That’s right. King George.”
“Is he the King of all the muggles?” Greg asked suddenly in a bewildered tone
as Sherlock shot him an incredulous look.
“King of England.” John clarified as he swung his bag to his shoulder. “And he
was ill for sometime.”
At that Sherlock pulled a face and stepped back, “Ah. Dull.”
“Dull?” John asked, wide eyed.
“Was hoping for something interesting.”
“Interesting.” John crossed his arms and shook his head.
“Yes. Regicide perhaps.”
“Regi—“ John stopped and laughed as Sherlock blinked at him. Greg snuck a roll
of John’s plate. “Yeah, I suppose that would have been more interesting,
Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sherlock?” Greg asked between bites. “You know him?”
“We uh, we met on the platform. He’s a transfer.”
“Ah, well, nice to meet you mate.” Greg gave a head nod, before freezing as he
caught a flash of Sherlock’s green robes underneath his jacket.
“Do you normally get the papers from London?” Sherlock asked, ignoring Greg
completely and stepping to square himself.
“John-“
At John’s hesitant, uncertain nod he grinned. “Excellent. How often?”
“John-“
“Well, my mother sends them weekly. She likes me up to date on what’s
happening--”
“John!” Greg stood quickly and John jumped as his fellow Gryffindor grabbed his
arm. “He’s a Slytherin.” The dark haired boy hissed to him.
Sherlock frowned, then frowned deeper as John’s face bleached of colour. “What
of it?” He questioned sharply. “He put that ridiculous hat on my head and put
me in a lodging situation. What, do you have ludicrous rivalries between
houses?”
“I uh,” He glanced at Greg. “He doesn’t know.”
“Know what?” He asked in an irritable voice, all but snarling with perplexity. 
“Slytherins don’t talk to us, alright? You can’t—“ John’s eyes shifted around
the food halls, candles flickering their shadows as other students filtered in
and out, thankfully at the moment, no one was noticing them. He grabbed the
shoulders of the other two and sat them down on the bench.
Keeping his voice low, “If a Slytherin saw you talking to me, you would be in
trouble.”
“So?”
“So??” John breathed.
“Mate,” Greg started and Sherlock reluctantly shifted his stare to the other
boy. “John’s a half-blood, alright?”
“I’m quite aware.” Sherlock snapped at him.
“What, you know?”
“The fact your mother sends you muggle papers and cares about your knowledge of
that part of society tells me that she herself is a muggle. It’s hardly
difficult.” He sniffed.
“Yeah but.” Greg stopped and stared at John. He gave a helpless shrug.
“You’re a pure-blood, right?” At Sherlock’s nod John gave a swallow. “And you
don’t care that I’m not?”
“Of course not. What are you implying?”
“The hat put you in Slytherin. The hat puts pure-bloods and …” John waffled.
“Look, you need to leave, alright? You can just stand up and walk out and just
leave me alone. It’s better this way.”
“I don’t care about that. I find muggles fascinating. In fact, the only class I
deigned to go to today was muggle studies. And I’m interested in your
newspaper. And you.” At that his face flushed. “What I mean to say,” he started
carefully, “Is that I don’t mind.”
John stared, cautiously assessing even as Greg shifted anxiously against him.
Sherlock’s raven hair was smoothed back, curling against his nape and John
glanced at his robes, flashing emerald beneath his jacket. His eyes, although
predatory in the twinkle of candlelight, shimmered with warmth and curiosity.
Slightly, John caught the quirk of a smile briefly ghost the Slytherin’s face.
The Gryffindor felt a creep of heat flush his throat.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Came a soft question.
“John, don’t be an idiot!” Came a hard command.
John smiled. “God, yes.”
---
“Why do you wear that pilot’s jacket?” John asked quietly.
To his credit, Sherlock didn’t make a face. Patiently, he said, “It’s not a
pilot’s jacket. It’s a motorbike jacket.”
“They let you wear that?”
Sherlock smiled, flashing white teeth. “Of course not.”
“You don’t even wear your house scarf.” He nearly giggled at Sherlock’s
eyeroll. “Not a fan of the scarf, I take it?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Everybody wears their scarf.”
Sherlock moved a demonstrative hand along his body, as if indicating he was not
apart of ‘everybody.’
“And the jeans?” John continued.
Sherlock shrugged. “They’re comfortable.”
John leaned back against the trunk of the tree and glanced up at the purpling
sky. “I wish I could wear my own clothes. They’re comfortable too.”
“Well, you can.” Sherlock stated, shifting against the bark, grass staining his
jeans but he couldn’t be arsed to care.
“Nah, I’ll get in trouble.” John pushed his glasses up as he pulled his knees
to his chest.
“I get in trouble.” Sherlock stated, unconcerned. John smiled at that.
“Yeah well, you’re just the bloody type to always get away with murder, aren’t
you?”
Sherlock wordlessly reached into his jacket, pulling out a small box.
“Smokes?” John sat up and reached but Sherlock lifted his arm high, the smaller
teen shooting him a death glare. “You shouldn’t smoke, Sherlock.” He muttered.
The Slytherin shrugged, placing a stick between his lips and plucking his wand
from his inner pocket. “Incendio.” He murmured and the cigarette flared red
with life.
“You know,” John drawled, resting back against the willow. “They think a reason
why the King died was his smoking. It was poor for his health. Plus, smoking in
the halls can get you in trouble too.”
“Mm, interesting.” Sherlock blew out a white ring, sounding anything but
interested. “Getting in trouble doesn’t bother me.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t care.”
“Don’t you care about anything?”
In any other voice, it would have sounded admonishing and cruel, but John’s was
soft and full of concern. Sherlock pulled another drag into his lungs and
stared into the forest.
--
John pulled out his bag once Greg had left their room, and carefully untucked
the glass vials from behind a set of socks. He drew a breath as he measured and
swallowed, gagging at the foul taste that he knew he would never grow
accustomed too.
He mentally counted each vials content volume and accounted for the weeks
ahead. His mother, diligent as always, had the exact amount measured until
Christmas break. At that point, she would be able to provide him with more.
As the loo flushed down the hall, John secured the top and hid it back in his
bag, making it to his bed as Greg entered the room once more.
“You ready for O.W.L.S?” Greg asked, picking up a journal and quill.
John nodded and wiped a hand across his neck. “Uh. Yeah, I think so.”
“I know they aren’t until after break, but um,” Greg hesitated slightly. “You
weren’t in class today, John. Or yesterday.
“I had practice.” He answered automatically, reaching to his nightstand and
snatching a novel off the top.
“You had practice on Monday, John. It’s Thursday, c’mon now. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s going on.” John averted his eyes, shuffling pages in his
book.
“You’ve never missed a class before. Five years and—“
“Yeah well, I’m just—“ John took a breath. “I’m fine, Greg. Everything’s fine.”
Greg gave him an unimpressed look, before going back to his notebook and
writing.
--
“Holmes!”
Sherlock slowed his pace, turning to watch Janine approach quickly, torch in
hand.
“It’s after hours, you can’t be out this late.”
“I’m aware.”
“And your attire!” She all but hissed disapprovingly. “We’ve talked about this
Holmes.” She gave him a derisive look. “Out with that Gryffindor again? Oh, we
all see you, Sherlock.” She continued at his hard glare. “Besides, you bring in
his scent with you every time you come back at such hours.”
Scent?
He raised an eyebrow as she motioned quickly. “Get back in your room. I don’t
want to see you out this late again. And by god, if you get our house points
deducted I will not be pleased.”
She stood watch as he sauntered his way down the hall, slamming the door behind
him.
--
Their kisses began tentatively, as if they were a physical, fragile thing that
might break. Now they had dissolved into near bites and snaps as Sherlock
pressed John against the wall, his head nestled into the meat of John’s neck
and shoulder, teeth scraping against his nape.
This wasn’t a kiss, John realized, even as he clutched at the other, nails
cutting into Sherlock’s hips. It was moist air against his neck, and warmth
flooding his throat and cheeks, moisture sliding from the corner of his mouth
and teeth against his jugular as he panted against the other. Not a kiss at
all.
“Sherlock,” he managed and he gasped as a sharp nip at against the jut of his
collarbone made him shiver. “We can’t… in the library… God.”
“Such a good student,” Sherlock murmured and playfully butted his head against
John’s. “You can be a little bad…”
“I’ve been bad with you,” At the words, a rush of warmth trailed all the way to
John’s ears. Pressed against the bookcase, Sherlock pinned John from chest to
groin, as the Gryffindor felt Sherlock’s length against him, hardening.
“John,” Sherlock moaned, sounding broken, even as John attempted to shush him
gently.
“It’s alright, I’m here.”
“I-I need,” Sherlock froze and withdrew and John saw momentary panic in those
silvered eyes.
“It’s alright. Hey.” He added as Sherlock pressed himself against John,
straddling his thigh and giving a rut. “What do you need hm?” He pressed an
awkward kiss to Sherlock’s temple, the other’s sweat tingling his lips. “Tell
me, Sherlock.” He whispered as Sherlock angled himself, as if he wanted to
enfold himself entirely within the other. “You can tell me anything.” He
murmured.
Sherlock pressed, groin up against John’s thigh, up to his hip and breathed in
John’s hair. Closing his eyes, John felt a gentle hold on his wrist and he let
himself be guided by the other. His hand came to rest at Sherlock’s crotch,
palm cupping.
“Please…”
It was a first, seeing Sherlock so skittish, fleeting fragments of panic and
confusion in his eyes. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw as he squeezed,
the other giving a groan. John pushed back gently in a burst of confidence.
“Be quiet for me, okay?” John murmured and smiled as Sherlock wordlessly
nodded, teeth clenched.
Deftly, he unbuckled and unzipped Sherlock’s jeans with one hand, his other
stroking his side. Sherlock was breathing deeply, hard and steady as John
dipped his hand and gripped.
Shit. Sherlock felt his left knee buckle but John was there to hold him
balanced as his fingers gripped Sherlock’s firm cock, thumb giving a light
stroke.
“Shh,” John grinned, watching Sherlock come apart sent a pulse of pleasure
through his belly. “Shh,” he soothed as the other’s face was buried into his
neck, teeth bared.
John shifted his grip and stroked, knuckles brushing the soft fabric of
Sherlock’s pants, jeans slipping a touch more down narrow hips.
His hold more comfortable, John stroked once, twice, gently sliding the flesh
between his fingers. From the dimness, he could scarcely make out Sherlock’s
sweat shined face. By touch, he felt the other swell even harder in his hand.
“Keep going,” Sherlock breathed, giving a small, involuntary thrust.
He began stroking once more, feeling moisture drip of the head he thumbed it,
running a line of slick down the length. Shifting lower, John gripped the base
and squeezed.
“Ah!-“Sherlock gave a swift inhale and shoved John back harder, and John nearly
lost his hold but the other caught his wrist, pinning him there. “Again, John,
again. Now.” Came the snarl. John gave a pulsing squeeze again, when his eyes
went wide, fingers gripping the hard, bulbous flesh.
“Sherlock—“
“Don’t stop John. I need—“
“Sherlock,” He breathed again, gripping the other tight. “Sherlock, you’re an
alpha…”
“John—“ Whatever sexual control John held over Sherlock was quickly
evaporating, as Sherlock began to shatter, nose buried in his hair, snapping at
John’s throat—oh god. 
“Sherlock, wait. Hey, hey.” He tried to soothe, tried to reason, and Sherlock
wrenched away briefly, violently shedding his jacket—too hot, much too hot,
trapped—and throwing it to the floor. 
John gripped him again, knot hard in his hand, squeezing and stroking quickly.
“Come on Sherlock, come for me. For me, Sherlock.” He kissed his jaw again,
licking a path along the line. Sherlock shuddered violently. “Release for me,
it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here.”
“You’re here.” Sherlock repeated, eyes blown and glinting by torchlight.
“I’m here.” John nodded.
“You’re mine.” Sherlock growled and John nodded without hesitation. Sherlock
shuddered again and moaned. He shifted quickly, having Sherlock’s calls muffled
by his shoulder. He squeezed the knot, not letting go as Sherlock soaked his
jeans, small thrusts still wracking his body.
“It’s okay, it’s alright.” He continued to murmur, stroking bits of whatever
sweat soaked skin he could touch.
“John… I-I don’t…” Sherlock stammered, looking wrecked, debauched, filthy and
unkempt in a way he hadn’t seen before and John tried to smile but it felt
wrong on his face.
“It’s okay, hush. Hush.”
“I don’t understand.” Sherlock finally managed, sounding stunned.
“You’re an alpha, Sherlock. It’s okay.”
“Alpha—“ Sherlock shook his head, belly heaving as John wiped Sherlock’s come
on his robe, gently tucking the other into his pants and zipping, leaving the
buckle undone.
“They… that’s not possible. That’s not…”
“I’m an omega,” John said gently as Sherlock stared down at him, eyes wide.
“Sometimes I… I mean, my mum has me taking suppressants but I know that it can
trigger a latent alpha…Hey, you alright?”
“I um, I don’t…”
“It’s alright. Do you trust me?”
There was a pause before a nod and John ran a hand through the mass of
Sherlock’s hair.
Sherlock took a step back and buckled himself as he reached down and grabbed
his jacket. His throat bobbed slightly as John took his hand and smiled.
“We’ll be alright. Let’s go upstairs and get us sorted. I’ll explain
everything.” 
 
End Notes
     *stares into the distance, avoiding eye contact with everyone*
     I feel like a second chapter might be appropriate, but eh.
     This happens on my tumblr on occasion where I write little prompt
     things and avoid adult responsibilities.
     belladonnaq.tumblr.com
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