That Monday morning, coming back from Hogsmeade, the frost hadn't yet burned off the flagstones before news of Harry Potter and Cho Chang's date had already swept every corner of Hogwarts.
Listening to the chatter rising and falling around him, Sherlock could tell just how many people found the whole thing fascinating.
It wasn't really surprising. After all, both of them were rather special.
One was the Wizarding World's saviour, the Dark Lord's only nemesis, the Boy Who Lived...
Under the embellishments of certain gossips, he'd also picked up a few ridiculous nicknames—Gryffindor's Golden Fist, the Casanova of the castle, that sort of thing (Sherlock didn't need more than half a brain to guess who was behind those).
And with Voldemort's return, a good portion of the Wizarding World had started looking at Harry Potter as something closer to a saviour outright.
Which, again, made sense. The man had reduced a Dark Lord at the height of his power to nothing when he was one year old. Five years into his Hogwarts education now, of course he'd only grown more formidable and the years since seemed to bear that out.
First year, he'd stopped Quirrell from stealing the Philosopher's Stone for Voldemort.
Second year, he'd stopped the basilisk in the Chamber from killing his classmates.
Third year looked quiet on the surface, but it left him with a godfather who was now something of a hero in the Wizarding World in his own right.
Fourth year needed no introduction—he and another hero had been the only two underage wizards in the Triwizard Tournament, fought their way through every obstacle, and taken the cup.
Next to Harry Potter, Cho Chang might have seemed a little less dazzling, but she held her own well enough.
Ever since Gemma Farley and Penelope Clearwater graduated, Cho with her looks had become unofficially Hogwarts' Most beautiful Girl of her year.
Not that looks were all she had—a Ravenclaw through and through, she'd also kept near the top of her year every single year.
"Love suits you, Harry."
Sherlock's gaze slid across Harry's cheek, where a trace of a smile still lingered, not quite wiped away.
"Your collar's gotten a good half-inch tighter these days."
Harry let out a long breath, his shoulders were sagging. "I don't understand why so many people are so keen on gossiping about something so small."
"And here I was hoping people might find something more interesting to talk about," Ron's voice cut in immediately, already counting off on his fingers. "Hagrid's still not back, that pink toad Umbridge has calmed down a bit, Halloween's coming up, and Quidditch is about to start—"
It was as if Ron's grumbling had been carried by Hogwarts's own wind straight to everyone's ears.
Not long after they got back from Hogsmeade, Halloween arrived.
This year's Halloween passed off without incident without any special catastrophes to speak of.
And with Halloween behind them, the footsteps of this season's Quidditch matches drew steadily closer.
All the whispering that had circled Harry and Cho was finally crowded out by a hotter topic.
Because Hogwarts had hosted the Triwizard Tournament the year before, there'd been no Quidditch season at all and the whole school's pent-up anticipation had built into a bonfire just waiting for match day to light it.
The amusing thing was, this season's opening match happened to be Gryffindor against Slytherin.
Everyone knew the rivalry between the two Houses ran bone-deep, a tradition passed down in the blood. So, the moment the news broke, expectations shot straight to the ceiling—the very air in the corridors seemed to simmer, every conversation was somehow circling back to tactics and players.
Gryffindor's new Captain, Angelina, had the whole team practically living on the pitch, day after day, and the training intensity was frankly alarming.
Ron, freshly on the team, staggered back to the dormitory every single time looking like he'd had every bone pulled out of him, collapsing face-down onto his bed with no intention of moving again.
Harry, on the other hand, who'd been doing morning training with Sherlock for ages now, barely showed any fatigue at all, he was long used to this kind of exertion.
Ginny, who'd joined the House team alongside Ron, was a different picture entirely, there was a barely-contained brightness in her eyes she couldn't hide no matter how hard she tried.
Even though she was still only Harry's reserve during practice, her performance had won over the whole team's approval. Angelina especially had said more than once that Ginny's level was more than good enough for her to start as first-choice.
For Ginny herself, just getting to train alongside Harry was already the most satisfying reward she could ask for especially given that not so long ago, the whole school had been gossiping about Harry and Cho's date, and Ginny had had to listen to every word of it with her heart aching in silence.
Now that training took up so much more time, the hours she got to spend with Harry had grown, and correspondingly, the time Harry spent with Cho had shrunk.
"I'm seriously starting to wonder if she's been possessed by Oliver Wood's ghost."
Leaning sideways against his broom while Angelina launched into yet another pep talk before practice, Fred lowered his voice to a mutter, dripping with resignation.
"She used to complain right along with the rest of us about how brutal Oliver's training was—so how'd she end up three times worse than he ever was, the second she made Captain? Good thing Sherlock's not here, or he'd tell her one of his little truths—never trust the opposition, because whoever ends up in charge, they're all the same."
Angelina might have looked deep in her pep talk, but that hadn't dulled her sharp hearing one bit. The second she caught Fred and the others whispering, her head snapped round.
"Fred. What was that?"
George reacted instantly, calling out at full volume, "He said the Captain's got brilliant insight!" and immediately shot Fred a wink.
"Ah—yes, yes, exactly!" Fred nodded along, hastily agreeing.
"Don't think I don't know exactly what the two of you are up to," Angelina said, giving the Weasley twins a look before snorting, not the least bit amused. "Haven't you noticed? McGonagall and Snape both like to put on a great show of not caring, but they've both already made up their minds their House is going to win this."
"Oh and McGonagall specifically asked me to pass along a message. Starting now, until the match is over, she's cancelling all our homework."
"Brilliant!" The moment he heard no more homework, Ron very nearly leapt into the air, every trace of exhaustion was wiped clean off his face, his eyes were lighting up like dew catching the sun.
Fred and George had already jumped up, high-fiving each other, the crisp smack of their palms were echoing across the pitch.
"Um... does that include reserves too?" Ginny, standing beside Harry, couldn't help asking. Fourth year didn't come with the same O.W.L. pressure as fifth year did, but less homework was still less homework, no matter who you were.
"Of course!" Angelina said firmly. "I said everyone. McGonagall told me she's gotten quite used to seeing that Quidditch Cup sitting in her office, and she has no intention of ever handing it over to Snape—so! We are going to use every extra hour we've been given to train like our lives depend on it. We are not letting Slytherin get away with it this time."
"Don't worry, Angelina. We've never lost to Slytherin, not once."
Alicia Spinnet gave her chest a confident pat.
"Don't you dare get complacent!" The second she heard that, Angelina's face darkened. "Snape's favouritism toward Slytherin couldn't be more obvious. I just got word—Slytherin's already booked the pitch for tomorrow morning. Do you understand what that means?"
Harry tried an answer. "We don't get a pitch to train on?"
"Exactly." Angelina nodded hard; a thread of anxiety was creeping into her voice. "If it were just this once, fine, I could let it go but if he keeps pulling this kind of trick behind our backs, our entire training schedule is going to fall apart."
The whole team drew in a sharp breath at that, and the air on the pitch turned heavy in an instant.
And, well—say what you like, but they weren't wrong. Knowing Snape's rotten temperament, he was absolutely capable of doing exactly that and possibly worse.
"So. Treasure every single training session we've got left," Angelina said, her expression stony, before shooting a long look at Alicia, who only a moment ago had said not to worry.
Alicia turned her face away, a little embarrassed, a flush rising in her cheeks clearly she, too, had just registered how serious this actually was.
None of the players, however, could have guessed that just one day later, something even more absurd than a stolen pitch was waiting for them.
"There were fourteen witnesses who saw the Slytherins do it!"
Harry burst into the common room, chest still heaving, and rounded on Sherlock in outrage. "They all saw it—Slytherin's Keeper, Miles Bletchley, hexed Alicia from behind, right there in the library! And that bastard Snape just flat-out insists Alicia did it to herself, messing around with some hair-growing charm!"
Ron, storming in right behind Harry, was practically purple with fury, a string of curses were spilling out of him. "He is honestly the most despicable, shameless, disgusting, filthy, rotten—"
"Calm yourselves, my friends."
Sherlock listened quietly to the two of them talking over each other, and quickly pieced together the whole picture.
Nothing complicated about it: with the Gryffindor–Slytherin match drawing near, Slytherin had played dirty, catching Gryffindor Chaser Alicia Spinnet alone in a corridor and hexing her when she wasn't looking.
The result was that Alicia's eyebrows had grown wild, spreading out until they'd swallowed her eyes and mouth whole, and she'd had to be rushed off to the hospital wing.
And Snape, Head of House for the very Slytherins responsible, had simply ignored the testimony of fourteen witnesses and pinned the blame stubbornly on Alicia herself.
"Why not go to Professor McGonagall?" Hermione asked, a little confused. "You both know perfectly well Snape always sides with his own House."
"Because all fourteen witnesses were Gryffindors," Harry said, hanging his head, thoroughly dejected. "Professor McGonagall said this wasn't something she could step in on."
"Looks fair on the surface. Pure pedantry underneath it," Sherlock said, shaking his head slightly, offering his verdict.
"So, we're just supposed to let them swagger around like this?" Ron demanded, furious.
"You two have been heading in the wrong direction from the very start." Sherlock's eyes lifted, settling on the pair of them, and he cut straight to the point. "Remember the last time the two Houses had a falling-out?"
"Sherlock—are you saying—" Harry's eyes widened slightly.
"Never pin your hopes on a teacher delivering justice for you," Sherlock said bluntly. "People have to rely on themselves. Haven't Fred and George been running experiments with their joke-shop prototypes in secret this whole time? Instead of paying younger Gryffindors to be their guinea pigs, why not switch things up—try a few Slytherins instead?"
"Yes!" The moment Sherlock spelled it out, Harry and Ron traded a look, a spark igniting in both their eyes at once, every trace of their earlier gloom was gone in an instant.
Hermione, on the other hand, frowned, plainly worried. "But knowing Snape, the second he catches you at it, he'll use breaking school rules as an excuse and punish you both without mercy—"
Sherlock's tone lifted slightly, a note of mischief creeping in. "My dear friend—you've only broken the rules if you're caught. So long as no one catches you red-handed—"
"Then it's their own bad luck!" Ron cut in, his brain clearly working overtime on this particular kind of problem.
"Precisely. And even if you're only suspected, the very worst that happens is losing a few points."
Sherlock paused, letting his gaze sweep over the two of them. "So—tell me. Do you two actually care about losing points?"
Harry and Ron: [look of pure, wordless delight]
Over the following days, life and training for the Slytherin Quidditch team took a distinctly colourful turn.
First in the firing line was Miles Bletchley, the very Slytherin who'd ambushed Alicia in the first place.
In the middle of Potions class, the moment his fingers so much as brushed the back of his chair, an unbearable, indescribable itch shot from his fingertips straight through his whole body.
He couldn't stop himself twisting and writhing, giggling helplessly, his face turned white, then red, then purple in front of the entire class—looking, by the end of it, exactly like a boiled lobster.
He tried a Scouring Charm on himself, which only made things worse—the spell hit his itching skin and sent him bouncing straight up out of his seat, nearly knocking over Professor Snape's potion-ingredient cabinet in the process.
"Idiot!"
One flick of Snape's wand and Bletchley froze in place, unable to move a muscle. Snape's expression had gone dark enough to drip water, his icy gaze sweeping the whole classroom but every one of the little lions sat there looking the very picture of innocence.
In the end, Bletchley was sent off to the hospital wing under the disgusted stares of his own classmates. Snape had no proof of anything, and Gryffindor still lost ten points anyway—the excuse being that the two lions closest to Bletchley hadn't rushed to help their classmate fast enough.
But exactly as Sherlock had predicted, none of the lions minded one bit. As long as it made Slytherin look ridiculous, who cared about a few lost points?
Next came Montague, Slytherin's Captain. With Snape's help, the team had claimed the pitch for themselves, and while the Slytherin players were mid-discussion of tactics, Montague suddenly leapt to his feet and announced, with great passion:
"I hereby declare our strategy against Gryffindor will be: riding dragons, upside down, in flight! Malfoy—the moment you catch the Snitch, feed it to the Giant Squid! And Slughorn—he's our secret weapon!"
Dead silence swept the changing room and then it exploded into helpless laughter. Montague, entirely oblivious to what he'd just said, carried gamely on, rattling off two or three more bits of tactical nonsense that made no sense to anyone at all.
And that wasn't even the end of it. After training wrapped up, Warrington discovered his knee-guards had gone strangely slick to the touch and for the next several days, they gave off a relentless, unshakeable smell of fish that neither washing nor a Cleaning Charm could shift.
Meanwhile, fellow Chaser Derrick Pucey found his robe pocket had somehow been stuffed full of slimy, still-writhing slugs, which turned his stomach thoroughly.
As Slytherin's newly-appointed Prefect, Seeker Malfoy naturally didn't escape it either. One lunchtime, with the whole school gathered in the Great Hall, a soft pop suddenly sounded out from underneath him.
His face changed colour in an instant.
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