For the students of Hogwarts, the brief stretch of days between the end of exams and the official start of the holidays was, without question, the most blissful time of the entire year.
Warm sunlight poured across the castle courtyard.
A breeze drifted in off the Black Lake, carrying that particular damp freshness across the lawns. Hermione Granger, of course, was still clutching her notes and dragging Sherlock into yet another post-exam answer comparison but she was very much the exception.
The great majority of young witches and wizards had let themselves go entirely. Some were sprawled on the grass soaking up the sun. Others were down at the lakeshore tossing mermaid biscuits to whatever lurked beneath the surface. A few had wandered in small groups along the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and the air rang with the kind of carefree laughter that only arrives when there is absolutely nothing left to worry about.
The 1994–1995 school year had given Hogwarts students even more reason than usual to feel proud of themselves. The Triwizard Tournament suspended for over a century had been revived, and Hogwarts had not only hosted its first modern edition but won it outright.
Every student in the castle walked with their chin a little higher, suffused with a warm, collective sense of reflected glory.
Sherlock Holmes, Harry Potter, and Cedric Diggory had become the undisputed heroes of the school. Even the Slytherins who made a point of keeping to themselves and looking down on everyone else had, for once, offered a grudging nod of respect.
The Durmstrang students, who had been sharing the castle with them all year, had visibly softened in the aftermath of the victory. An institution that taught Dark Magic as a proper subject tended to produce students who admired strength above all else; it was no great surprise.
The Beauxbatons girls were less forthcoming than the Durmstrang boys about expressing it, but even their glances toward the Hogwarts students had taken on a warmer quality. A French school showing genuine regard for a British one that, in itself, was something remarkable.
Not everyone, however, could lose themselves entirely in the celebrations.
Shortly after their return from the graveyard at Little Hangleton, Sherlock and Harry had told Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Gemma, and the others the full truth of what had happened that night—Voldemort's return, the battle in the graveyard, all of it.
This had, in fact, been Dumbledore's suggestion. He intended to make a formal announcement to the whole school at the end-of-year feast, and he felt that their closest friends deserved to know in advance, both to give them time to prepare and to ensure that when the moment came, they would be ready to face whatever followed.
As a footnote: the outcome of that night's battle had unfolded precisely as Sherlock had predicted. Voldemort had not died in the graveyard.
Under the cover of his Death Eaters, he had managed to flee. Most of the Death Eaters themselves had not escaped, among those captured was John Smith, who had been granted the dark honour of regeneration from Voldemort's severed finger.
The news had not been received calmly. Everyone was shaken—everyone except Sherlock, who remained as composed as ever. For Ron and Ginny especially, who had grown up in a wizarding family, Voldemort's name had loomed over their entire childhood like a shadow. Just hearing it spoken aloud was enough to make the blood run cold.
"I am begging you," Ron said, his face a portrait of misery as he looked from Sherlock to Harry to Hermione, "can we please stop saying that name?"
These three said it constantly. Voldemort this, Voldemort that. Every time he heard it, his skin crawled—here, in Hogwarts, in the sunshine, and still his nerves wouldn't settle.
"Ron," Hermione said flatly, giving him the look, "you need to learn to get used to it."
Sherlock said nothing. He was leaning against the trunk of the willow tree, idly turning a blade of grass between his fingers, his gaze distant and unreadable.
Harry looked at Ron steadily. "Avoiding it doesn't make it go away."
"Harry," Ron said, eyes wide with betrayal, "even you don't love me anymore?"
Ron didn't know—couldn't know—how much Harry had changed since the night of the final task.
The old Harry might have softened for a friend's sake, might have let it go. But the Harry who had looked Voldemort in the face and survived had come back different. He was no longer willing to yield ground on this.
When Ron flinched from the name the way he always had, Harry no longer felt the urge to accommodate him. His heart had hardened, quietly, in the direction of Sherlock's.
"Don't be disgusting," said Ginny.
She was sitting cross-legged beside Harry, her arms around her knees, the sunlight catching the deep red of her hair and setting it alight. She wrinkled her nose at her brother without any apparent sympathy.
"Oh, that's rich," Ron shot back, "you were shaking too!"
"I was shaking," Ginny said, lifting her chin, "but I'll learn to stop." She looked at Harry with open admiration. "I think Harry's right. Being afraid of the name makes you more afraid of the thing."
Harry's face went faintly pink. He reached up and rumpled his already disheveled hair. "That was actually Dumbledore who said that, Ginny."
"I've never heard Dumbledore say it," she replied, her gaze direct and unabashed. "I've only heard you."
The air between them shifted, just slightly. The willow branches swayed and trailed across the lake's surface, drawing a slow ring of ripples outward. Nobody said anything for a moment.
Then Gemma's eyes swept across Harry, Cho Chang, and Ginny in turn. She cleared her throat with quiet precision. "Hermione," she said, "you mentioned earlier that you'd found something that might stop Harry's scar from hurting. What exactly did you mean?"
The question landed like a well-aimed Summoning Charm, pulling the attention of both girls sharply back from wherever it had drifted.
"Yes!" Hermione turned to Harry with barely contained excitement. "Do you remember what Sherlock said—that time?"
"About what?" Harry blinked. Hermione's thought process could move at a pace that left everyone else behind. He glanced over at Sherlock for help.
Sherlock gave a small, unhurried nod. "About treating the mind like an attic. Clearing out useless emotions."
"Exactly that!"
Hermione's gaze snapped to Sherlock with an intensity that rivalled Ginny's from moments before as though she were looking at something rare and extraordinary. The others watched, puzzled, as she drew herself up and recited, word for word, in precise and dawdling sequence:
"Like me—clear all those useless emotions out of the attic of your mind. That way, the next time Voldemort draws close, or experiences a powerful surge of feeling, you'll be able to empty your head in time, and push the pain and the fear straight out with everything else."
A silence fell.
Everyone stared at Hermione—everyone except Sherlock, whose expression did not change in the slightest.
She had reproduced it verbatim. Not a textbook passage she'd revised for exams. A moment of ordinary conversation, committed flawlessly to memory.
Hermione appeared entirely unaware of the effect she was having. She pressed on with the same bright enthusiasm. "Now, I'll admit that at first I thought Harry couldn't do this. Not everyone can treat their own mind like an attic they can rearrange at will—that's rather uniquely Sherlock's particular talent."
Everyone nodded. Yes. That level of almost punishing self-discipline was, in all likelihood, only achievable by Sherlock Holmes.
"But—" Hermione's chin came up, the look of someone who has spent three days in the library and found exactly what they were looking for— "we are wizards."
She reached into her robes, produced a carefully folded piece of parchment, and unfolded it with slightly trembling fingers. Then she read, at speed:
"Occlumency is a branch of defensive magic and an advanced form of Defence Against the Dark Arts. It is exceedingly rare. It enables a witch or wizard to seal their mind against Legilimency and prevent others from penetrating their thoughts. In its most fundamental form, it involves the emptying of the mind—ceasing thought, ceasing memory, ceasing feeling."
She looked up. Her eyes were bright. "Do you see? You don't have to be Sherlock—you don't have to be born with the ability to file your thoughts like a catalogue. You just have to learn Occlumency. Empty your mind entirely. Once you can do that, Voldemort's emotional surges can't reach you. Your scar won't hurt anymore."
Harry stared at her: (°ー°〃)
Ron, Ginny, and the others wore much the same expression—the glazed, helpless look of students who have been told they need to master a subject they have never even heard of.
Gemma was quiet for a moment, brow furrowed thoughtfully. "From what I understand, Occlumency is an exceptionally obscure branch of magic. It's extraordinarily difficult which is precisely why it's never been incorporated into standard teaching. Even the advanced N.E.W.T. classes in sixth and seventh year rarely touch it."
"Harry can't wait for it to eventually show up on the syllabus!" Hermione said, in the tone she used when a thing was already decided and this was merely the announcement of it.
"We have to take matters into our own hands. Sherlock, you take Harry to see Dumbledore or Professor Lupin—get one of them to teach you Occlumency. You mastered the Patronus Charm without a proper teacher; Occlumency should be nothing for you. And Harry—" she turned, fixing him with the full weight of her resolution— "that's how you spend the holiday. You dedicate yourself to this."
Harry opened his mouth, then shut it again.
He'd already made plans for the holidays. He was visiting Cho Chang.
He looked, with the quiet desperation of someone who knows they have lost the argument before it has started, toward Sherlock.
Sherlock met his gaze. He gave a slight nod. "I'll go with you to ask Dumbledore."
"What are you all talking about? You look very pleased with yourselves."
The voice was bright and clear. Everyone turned.
Fleur Delacour was standing a short distance away on the lawn, her little sister Gabrielle's hand held in hers. Both of them had their long gold hair loose in the sunshine, and their silver eyes were wide with curious good humor.
Fleur had been in fine spirits lately. Word had reached her from her father: despite her failure to complete the task Mycroft had set her—the discreet surveillance of Sherlock— Mycroft had, for reasons she couldn't entirely account for, intervened to resolve the legal dispute her family had been facing.
Furthermore, Sherlock's performance in the tournament had spared Beauxbatons the indignity of finishing last. And Gabrielle, since watching Harry's performance in the final task with her own eyes, had become an unreserved and dedicated enthusiast of Hogwarts in general and Harry Potter in particular. Given any opportunity, she pleaded with her sister to bring her to find him.
By now, the whole school knew: Gabrielle Delacour was Harry Potter's number-one tiny admirer.
Today was no exception. Gabrielle had worked on Fleur with a persistence that was difficult to counter, and here they were at the lakeside where, as it happened, Harry was sitting in a circle with his friends.
"Nothing much," Gemma said pleasantly, smoothing the moment over with a composed smile. "We'd just untangled a rather tiresome little problem, so spirits were running a bit high." She turned to Fleur with genuine warmth. "Term is almost over—what are your plans, Miss Delacour?"
Fleur settled herself on the grass nearby, Gabrielle in tow. The moment they were seated, Gabrielle pulled free of her sister's hand, pattered across to Harry, and installed herself at his side with the easy confidence of someone who has done this many times before. Her small head drifted naturally toward his shoulder.
Harry was very fond of the girl. He reached over and ruffled her hair.
Gabrielle beamed.
Across the circle, Cho Chang and Ginny exchanged a look.
Cho, by nature gentle and even-tempered, seemed to find the scene merely sweet. Ginny, despite being someone who felt things keenly, had to concede that she had no standing here—she wasn't Harry's girlfriend, after all and besides, Gabrielle was not yet ten years old. She said nothing.
Although, she noted privately, two years from now, the calculation might be quite different.
"I'm thinking of finding work in England," Fleur said lightly, tucking a strand of gold hair behind one ear. "It's a good opportunity to work on my English."
"Your English is already brilliant!" Ron blurted.
His voice had come out slightly strained. A faint flush was rising up his neck. He was looking at Fleur with the helpless, painstaking attention of someone who is trying very hard to appear casual and succeeding at nothing of the kind.
Fleur turned and gave him a small, gracious smile. "Thank you."
Ron: (///▽///)
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