12 Grimmauld Place, ancestral home of the Black family.
Sirius and Snape stood with their wands levelled at each other.
A duel seemed inevitable—seconds away from igniting.
Harry had thrown himself between them, desperate to prevent it. He hadn't expected Sirius to shove him roughly aside. With no other option, he had done the only thing left to him: he had put everything into calling out that one name.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock did not disappoint.
Though the manner in which he intervened was not quite what Harry had imagined.
Moving low and fast—faster than the eye could properly follow—Sherlock cut between the two men in an instant. His right hand shot out, thumb driving hard into the pressure point on the inside of Snape's wand wrist. His left forearm rose slightly and struck Sirius squarely on the elbow joint of his wand arm.
Crack. Crack.
Two clean impacts, nearly simultaneous.
Snape felt a searing, numbing pain blaze through his wrist. His fingers opened instinctively.
Sirius felt his elbow go as though struck by a hammer, his grip dissolving before he could think to hold it. The wand flew free.
Sherlock's movements were effortless, inevitable.
In the fraction of a second when both men froze with pain and shock, he reached out with both hands and caught the two wands cleanly as they left their owners.
The room fell completely silent. Only the rain remained, tapping softly at the windows outside. Water gathered along the sill in small dark pools, and in their surfaces the still figures of the room's occupants were dimly reflected.
Sirius stood frozen in his forward lunge, dishevelled black hair hanging over his face. His grey-blue eyes dropped first to his own empty palm, with an expression of bewilderment.
The hand that had held his wand couldn't even close into a fist.
He jerked his head up and stared at Sherlock who had already retreated to the window—and the look in his eyes was not anger. Not yet. It was the look a person gives something they cannot explain.
As though he were looking at a creature outside the natural order.
Snape, too, seemed to have been put on pause.
He lowered his eyes slowly to his wrist, hanging limp at his side. His throat bobbed sharply.
To be disarmed bare-handed by a boy of fifteen was, to a man as proud as Snape, a humiliation a hundred times worse than being bested by Sirius Black.
The last of the colour drained from his already pale face, leaving only fury, and beneath it, a thin, bewildered shock at the sheer barbarism of what had just been done to him.
He turned on Sherlock. Those unfathomable black eyes filled with something that was almost a physical force—a rage that locked onto its target and did not waver.
And to be precise: that rage was not directed at an enemy. It was directed at a thug who had desecrated the sacred art of a wizard's duel.
"Sherlock—what did you just do?"
Sirius finally caught up with events. He shook out his still-tingling wrist and fixed his gaze on the two wands in Sherlock's hands, the question was escaping him before he could stop it.
"Only what was necessary to make you both think clearly for a moment."
Sherlock leaned against the window frame, fingers idly tapping one of the wands. Behind him, rain ran in gullies down the glass, blurring the sharp edge of his profile.
"Holmes."
Before Sirius could respond, Snape's voice cut across—hoarse with rage, his teeth grinding together audibly, each word forced out through them: "Who do you think you are?"
"Someone who would prefer that the Black Manor not be reduced to rubble by the two of you before term begins."
Sherlock turned calmly and set both wands down gently on the long oak table. The grain of the wood caught the lamplight; the wands' sheen stood out all the more clearly against it.
It was, of course, something of an exaggeration. But it did express his displeasure at what both of them had been doing.
His gaze moved to Harry who was thoroughly gobsmacked then settled on Sirius and Snape. He gave a small laugh, and spoke in the tone of a man who is perfectly comfortable saying the unsayable:
"Forgive my bluntness—but while we are in the middle of discussing how to protect Harry and keep him out of Voldemort's reach, two adult wizards hurling dark curses at each other is not merely pointless. It is honestly, comprehensively, irredeemably stupid."
Whether it was Sherlock's earlier action that had restored Sirius's composure, or whether it was these words—it was hard to say. But this time, unlike before, he did not immediately fire back. He reached out, took his wand from the table, and pocketed it without a word.
He gave Snape a long, hard look. Then he gave Harry a reassuring look of quite different character, and walked out of the room in silence.
"You talk too much, Holmes," Snape said, the moment the door closed behind Sirius.
He was still staring at Sherlock, voice clipped and precise.
Sherlock's reply came lightly: "If you want something kept quiet, don't do it in front of witnesses."
Snape studied him. The proverb, coming from this particular mouth, had an odd quality to it that he couldn't quite account for.
"It has always been my view," Sherlock continued, "that communication is essential to solving any problem. Which is why I have consistently objected to Dumbledore's habit of arranging everything unilaterally while keeping critical information to himself. What I did not anticipate was that Professor Snape shares the same preference."
His voice remained pleasant, conversational.
"The unsung hero of the shadows. Misunderstood, and content to stay that way. Perhaps it brings you a certain satisfaction. Perhaps you see no point in explaining yourself to people you consider beneath you. Perhaps you have other reasons entirely. None of that concerns me.
What does concern me is that this approach has begun to affect our plans—and will very likely obstruct Harry's progress in learning Occlumency. At that point, it stops being a private eccentricity and becomes something that works against all of us.
Let it go, Professor.
If you've decided to be a genuine protector—then act like one. Stop making it so difficult for everyone, yourself included."
Snape went very still.
Sherlock's words had worked on him like a key—the precise instrument for a specific lock and the door they opened led somewhere he had never intended to let anyone see.
Once again, the sensation moved through him: a cold creeping at the back of the neck, a feeling like exposure.
The boy before him was obviously just a fifteen-year-old student. And yet he—a master Legilimens, a man who had spent decades constructing and maintaining perfect walls around his inner life felt as though every secret had been laid quietly on the table without his permission.
Could it be that Dumbledore hadn't lied to him after all?
That Sherlock Holmes—using no magic, nothing but observation and inference—had simply… seen?
In that moment, Severus Snape already knew the answer.
He simply refused to admit it.
He drew a slow breath. "Out, Holmes. I have a private lesson to begin."
He turned his face sharply away—an attempt to cover the fact that his composure had briefly and visibly slipped.
"As you wish, sir."
Sherlock smiled, and turned with an easy grace, the hem of his coat cutting a clean arc through the air behind him.
As he passed Harry, he leaned down and said something in a voice low enough for only the two of them to hear.
Harry's expression showed little surprise. He nodded once, quietly, and something steady entered his green eyes.
Snape's gaze followed Sherlock until he had passed through the door and the soft click of the latch confirmed he was gone. Only then did Snape look away.
What he felt at that moment was difficult to name. The inside of him had been overturned like a jar of mixed spices, and he could not have said which note was strongest.
He knew that particular skill—the ability to render a person speechless with a well-placed truth—all too well.
Because it was his skill. His, above almost anyone else's.
That he should have been on the receiving end of it, from a fifteen-year-old boy, in precisely the manner he was most accustomed to deploying it—
And then there was the other thing, which was in some ways worse: moments ago, that same boy had disarmed both him and Sirius Black—two first-rate wizards, veterans of a wizarding war without casting a single spell.
He could construct any number of defences for himself:
That no two people had the same physical constitution. That he had been in a state of extreme anger, his magical flow disrupted. That he had let his guard down, been careless—hadn't even moved out of the way—
But facts were facts. He had been holding his wand. And a bare-handed boy had taken it from him without magic.
As a half-blood wizard who was quite well-acquainted with the Muggle world, he naturally had some understanding of what Sherlock's methods implied.
A Muggle duelling master?
Whatever the explanation—there was only one word for what he had just experienced: outrageous. And another: a supreme disgrace.
In the space of a few minutes, Sherlock Holmes had given him a defeat unlike anything he had felt before—not facing Dumbledore, not facing Voldemort. Never.
And of all people, it had come at the hands of Sherlock Holmes.
Snape drew a breath, forced all of it down—the indignation, the bewilderment, the wounded pride and retrieved his wand from the table with fingers that trembled very slightly.
Since Holmes was apparently so determined that his time not be wasted on internal conflict, he would give Potter a thoroughly "thorough" first lesson.
He turned around with that intention fully formed—
And froze.
"Sherlock, what just happened?"
The moment Sherlock stepped out of the room, three girls converged on him: Gemma, Hermione, and Cho Chang.
Hermione's questions came rapid-fire, barely pausing for breath: "Sherlock, what happened? When Sirius came out his face was as black as the bottom of a cooking pot—he wouldn't say a word. We tried asking him, but he just ignored us and went straight upstairs. What happened in there?"
Sherlock smiled faintly and summarised the situation at speed:
"Nothing particularly dramatic—as arranged, Professor Snape came to begin teaching Harry Occlumency. Sirius naturally wanted to be present in his capacity as Harry's godfather. The two of them proceeded to have a warm and friendly exchange. When it reached the point where they had raised their wands and seemed intent on deepening their friendship through mutual hexing, I temporarily relieved them of the means to do so."
The three girls stared at him.
'Nothing particularly dramatic?'
Every single sentence was packed with the kind of detail that warranted a scream.
"You used Expelliarmus on them?" Gemma recovered first, leaning forward with open curiosity.
"Accio, then?" Hermione offered, thinking it through when Sherlock shook his head. "Those are really the only two spells that could disarm two people that quickly."
Sherlock's smile widened slightly. "Hermione, I think you might want to consider the problem from a slightly different angle."
"A different angle?" She blinked. Then something outlandish surfaced in her mind, and she heard herself ask, almost experimentally: "You didn't… disarm them bare-handed, did you? Without magic?"
She found it a bit absurd even as she said it.
How could that be possible?
Professor Snape and Sirius—what kind of wizards were they? Gifted, disciplined, tested by war. First-rate by any measure. A momentary lapse wouldn't be enough for a fifteen-year-old to simply take their wands by hand.
But as she moved to dismiss the thought, she found Sherlock watching her with an expression that was not quite a smile and not quite neutral.
She knew that expression. She had classified it.
Her heart gave a sudden, startled beat. Her certainty faltered. "…Is that actually what happened?"
"Once you allowed yourself to think in the right direction," Sherlock said, with something very like approval, "you found the answer immediately. Well done, Hermione."
Gemma and Hermione exchanged a look, and both of their faces did something complicated.
They had always known Sherlock was exceptional—his reasoning, his magical ability, both far beyond anyone his age. But they had not imagined this.
Bare-handed. Two first-rate wizards. No magic.
It overturned their understanding of the wizarding world. Every previous astonishment had been a matter of intellect. This was something else—pure, baffling physical ability. It was simply too bizarre.
Cho Chang, for her part, had less interest in the how than the who.
She leaned in, voice quick with concern: "Sherlock, is Harry alright? Snape wasn't horrible to him, was he?"
"You can set your mind at ease, Miss Chang. He's already begun his first lesson. I expect it will be a very… illuminating one."
Illuminating?
Hermione, Gemma, and Cho exchanged uncertain glances. Given everything they knew about Snape's customary approach to Harry, illuminating seemed like an unlikely word for it.
About an hour later, Snape was the first to emerge from the room.
Unusually, he didn't leave immediately. He paused.
His eyes went to Hermione—and the look in them was something none of them had seen there before. The familiar edge of mockery was absent. In its place was a barely perceptible complexity, unreadable.
"Miss Granger," he said, in a tone as stiff as starched fabric, "you are not entirely without merit."
He did not wait for her to respond. He turned, walked the length of the hall, and left 12 Grimmauld Place without looking back.
Sherlock said nothing, and smiled. This was precisely what he had anticipated.
Gemma and Cho were left astonished.
"Hermione," said Cho, tugging at her sleeve, "what did you do?"
Gemma was watching her with the same question.
"I—"
Hermione had been about to say 'I have no idea' when the door opened again and Harry stepped out.
The moment she saw him, she understood exactly what Snape's words had meant.
Harry was wearing a dark blue cotton mask over the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible—those unmistakable green eyes.
The mask was the one Sherlock had specifically asked her to bring before they left, with instructions she hadn't fully understood until now. She hadn't anticipated that he would give it to Harry.
And now she found herself thinking of something that had been said to Harry, more than once, by more than one person:
'You have your mother's eyes.'
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