It was hard to say whether this Care of Magical Creatures lesson—the first since Hagrid's return from his injuries should count as a success or a failure.
For his fifth-years, he had brought out one of the most enigmatic creatures in the wizarding world: the thestral.
According to Hagrid, thumping his own chest as he said it, he was the only person in all of Britain who could tame these black-winged horses.
By his own account, he was the one and only man in the whole of Britain to have ever tamed a thestral.
But the trouble lay precisely in what made thestrals so peculiar.
Setting aside Professor Hagrid himself, the Gryffindor lions and Slytherin snakes combined could count, at most, only three students among them who could actually see those gaunt, skeletal black horses.
Sherlock Holmes.
Neville Longbottom.
And Theodore Nott.
That Sherlock could see the thestrals was hardly a surprise.
He had witnessed more death than any of his peers at Hogwarts.
Blood and loss, lurking in the shadows of his past, had carved marks into him that would never quite fade.
Neville's case was simpler.
He had watched his own grandfather close his eyes and walk, peacefully, to the end of his life.
To him, death was like the sudden chill by a hearth gone cold, like a bedtime story he would never hear again.
As for that Slytherin, Theodore Nott…
"His mother died."
Ron had barely brought the subject up before Sherlock cut in, not even lifting his head.
"How did you—never mind. I won't ask."
Ron shrugged. "All in all, it was a pretty interesting lesson, wasn't it?"
"It would have been more interesting if we could actually see the thestrals."
Hermione sighed helplessly. "Honestly, though, Hagrid did far better than I expected."
Beside her, Harry frowned, looking utterly baffled as he turned to Sherlock.
"Sherlock, I've seen death with my own eyes too. So why is it that I still can't see the thestrals?"
Sherlock shook his head slightly. "It isn't enough to have simply witnessed death to be able to see them."
"What?"
Ron's voice shot up, his face full of disbelief.
"But when Hagrid asked the question, that's exactly what Hermione said!"
"And Hagrid gave Gryffindor ten points for it!"
Sherlock's gaze grew thoughtful. "What Hermione said was really just the simplified version of the answer."
Hermione looked at Sherlock in surprise, and he went on.
"Hagrid accepted it, and awarded the points, because in the context of the lesson just now, that explanation was accurate enough."
"To put it precisely—only someone who has witnessed death with their own eyes, and who has understood and accepted what death means, can see the thestrals."
At this, Sherlock's gaze settled on Harry.
"So, Harry. You can't."
Harry: "..."
It was technically true. But somehow it still sounded strange.
Whatever else could be said of it, Hagrid's thestral lesson ended up earning a distinctly mixed verdict.
The reason wasn't really that most people couldn't see the thestrals though watching chunks of meat peel themselves off bone and vanish into thin air was, admittedly, a little unsettling.
But once you got used to that particular arrangement, it was actually rather cool.
The real issue was that, by tradition, thestrals were considered unlucky creatures, said to bring all manner of terrible misfortune upon those who could see them. This, at least, was according to another teacher—Professor Trelawney of Divination.
Even though Hagrid had refuted it on the spot, it hadn't done much to dispel the unease everyone was left with.
Still, as far as Hagrid was concerned, it was a fine start.
As December crept quietly closer, snow began to drift across the skies above Hogwarts, scattering lightly over the castle's spires and courtyards.
And arriving right alongside it: an avalanche of homework that left the fifth-years gasping for breath.
Calling it an avalanche wasn't even much of an exaggeration.
Because even Sherlock had to set aside great stretches of time in the common room just to get through it all—after all, he'd taken every single one of the twelve available subjects. To Hermione, this was frankly more absurd than the idea of Snape suddenly turning kind to Harry.
Because, of late, Harry had taken to wearing a mask every single time he went to his Occlumency lessons.
And whenever he wore it, Snape's whole manner changed, as though he'd become an entirely different person.
Everyone knew the reason why.
The mask covered up Harry's face so uncannily like James's leaving only a pair of green eyes, the very image of Lily's, visible above it.
Gone were the biting sarcasm and the nitpicking, and Harry's progress in Occlumency could only be described as frighteningly fast.
It was precisely because of this that an ambitious idea had gradually begun forming in Hermione's mind.
Perhaps Harry ought to wear the mask during Potions class too.
But then, on second thought, having only Harry wear one would be far too conspicuous.
After much deliberation, Hermione settled on a more thorough plan:
Get the entire Gryffindor class to wear masks.
That way, Harry wouldn't stand out as the odd one out.
"I actually think that's a pretty good idea."
Ron, busy scribbling away, copying Sherlock's Astronomy homework (Hermione wouldn't let him copy hers), chimed in without even glancing up. "It's good for Harry, and it's good for Snape too."
"Oh, right—what's that word again, Sherlock?"
"Win-win."
Sherlock didn't so much as lift an eyelid, his quill still scratching away steadily across the parchment.
"Right, right, win-win!" Ron slapped his own thigh in agreement and immediately winced.
Hermione's expression turned thoughtful at this.
"In that case, I'll need to write home and have Mum and Dad send me some more masks."
This wasn't something Hermione could pull off on her own, so the first person she thought of was her roommate and fellow prefect.
But when Hermione eagerly laid out her mask plan to Parvati, Parvati's face was nothing but scepticism.
"Are you being serious, Hermione?"
"Of course I am," Hermione replied, perfectly confident. "Wearing a mask effectively prevents the spread of colds. There's scientific evidence behind it."
"Er… Hermione, isn't it a little odd to be talking about science in the wizarding world?" Parvati trailed off halfway through.
"And besides, it'll stop Snape from picking on Harry so much." Hermione hurried to offer the more tempting reason.
"Really? I don't believe it!" Parvati pursed her lips.
"Patil, what Hermione's saying is true." Sherlock, who had been silent this whole time, suddenly spoke up.
Parvati blinked, then nodded as if it had all just clicked into place. "Well—if Holmes says so, then I suppose it must be fine."
"How is that fair!"
Hermione stamped her foot in frustration, watching Parvati's retreating back.
"I'm her roommate! Why would she rather believe Sherlock than believe me?"
"Probably because, as far as she's concerned, Sherlock Holmes never lies," Sherlock supplied, as though giving the standard, textbook answer.
"But Sherlock, you told me yourself—if it were necessary—"
Hermione turned to look at him, her tone full of indignation.
"That's right. If it were necessary, I would lie too."
Sherlock turned to face her, explaining earnestly, "But from what limited contact I've had with the Patil twins, I've never once encountered a situation that called for it."
"So, as far as they're concerned, 'Sherlock Holmes never lies' happens to be a perfectly true statement."
Hermione paused, then sighed, resigned. "Fine. At least the problem's solved."
The boys turned out to be far easier to persuade than the girls.
Their thinking was simpler—none of the twists and turns.
The moment they heard it might stop the old bat from giving Harry a hard time, the lads thumped their chests and agreed on the spot.
By the time Potions class rolled around, the Slytherins sharing the lesson with Gryffindor found themselves staring in outright shock.
There sat the little lions, every single one wearing an identical style of mask, only their eyes—some curious, some nervous—visible above the fabric.
For a moment, the classroom buzzed with murmurs, rising and falling.
"Quiet!"
Snape swept into the room with his usual cold, clipped stride, his brow was furrowing on instinct. His gaze swept across the sea of masks. "Would someone care to explain what exactly is going on here?"
Gryffindor's female prefect, Parvati, glanced at Neville who was trembling like a leaf and sighed inwardly, muttering to herself about useless men. She drew a deep breath and raised her hand.
Once Snape gave his permission, Parvati did her best to keep her voice steady and composed.
"Sir, there's been a bit of a cold going around the castle lately.
None of us really want to go see Madam Pomfrey, not when it means drinking that potion that makes smoke come out of your ears.
Wearing masks happens to be an effective way to prevent the spread of colds."
At this explanation, the Slytherins all wore expressions of unmistakable glee.
Even though Hermione had promised beforehand thumping her own chest for good measure that this would improve their saviour's treatment in Potions, and even though Sherlock, trusted by nearly everyone, had vouched for her plan besides.
The little lions still couldn't help but look thoroughly uneasy in this moment.
After all, standing before them was none other than Severus Snape.
The man known as the old snake king, the old bat—the Potions master who had never once let up on Gryffindor.
And yet, what happened next left every single student's jaw on the floor.
"Well reasoned. Very considerate."
Snape's gaze drifted slowly across the room, coming at last to rest on Harry.
Seeing that pair of green eyes—Lily's eyes exactly peering out from behind the mask, his expression flickered, just for an instant, into something almost distant.
Then, in a flat, even tone, he said: "Ten points to Gryffindor."
"Whoa!"
The entire classroom erupted at once.
The sun had risen in the west! Snape had actually awarded Gryffindor points!
It was raining blood! Snape had actually awarded Gryffindor points!
You-Know-Who was back… well, all right, that part actually was true.
But regardless, the fact that Snape had given Gryffindor points was, in itself, more than enough to leave everyone's jaw on the floor.
The news spread like it had grown wings—the moment Potions class ended, it had already swept through every corner of Hogwarts.
"Minerva, what do you make of it?"
In the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Lupin were discussing the matter.
Dumbledore, sipping at a mug of honey water more sugar than water, turned to McGonagall beside him, a twinkle in his smiling eyes.
McGonagall wore a smile of her own—a rare thing indeed. "It's a good thing for both Potter and Severus, however you look at it."
"Sherlock and Hermione really are clever," Professor Lupin remarked, sounding rather moved. "Far more so than we were, at their age."
"Don't be so modest, Remus. You were already a prefect by that age."
McGonagall kept her smile fixed on Lupin. "Sirius and James gave me far more headaches than you ever did."
As she finished speaking, her smile slowly faded, her tone growing rather graver.
"On that note—you must be especially careful on this mission of yours.
I haven't been able to settle these past few days. He hasn't stirred a single move since that night…"
"My dear Minerva, why is it that even now, you still won't say his name outright?"
Dumbledore set down his cup, his gaze mild but unyielding.
"I've said it so many times over the years—fear of a name only strengthens fear of the thing itself. So, let us go on saying his name—"
"Voldemort."
Lupin supplied it gently.
McGonagall gave a visible shudder, but Dumbledore paid it no mind and continued.
"That's right. Voldemort. Thank you, Remus."
"Not at all, Headmaster. It has always been an honour to be taught by you." Lupin inclined his head slightly.
"Very well. I know neither of you is afraid of him."
McGonagall's tone carried equal parts exasperation and grudging admiration.
"You're both exceptional cases, as everyone well knows."
"One of you being—well, all right—the one person Voldemort himself fears."
"And the other, the only one who ever broke a curse he cast."
At this, Dumbledore and Lupin exchanged a glance and smiled, a flicker of something like nostalgia was passing behind their eyes.
"All right, Remus."
Dumbledore's smile faded, his expression turned solemn.
"Titles aside, I agree with Minerva. Your journey this time is far more dangerous than Rubeus's. After all, it is only natural for werewolves to feel a certain kinship toward Voldemort. And besides, he has been unusually quiet these past few days."
"Don't worry, Headmaster. I treasure my own life a great deal more than either of you might imagine, and—"
Lupin's eyes were steady with resolve as he drew a deep breath. "—this hard-won position of mine."
"Good."
Dumbledore nodded, his blue eyes, sharp behind their half-moon spectacles, fell earnestly on Lupin.
"I must remind you—the moment you sense the situation is beyond saving, your own safety must come first, above all else.
And—"
He paused, a certain meaningful note entering his voice.
"Just as Madame Maxime accompanies Rubeus, I've found you a partner for this trip as well."
"Headmaster, that really isn't necessary—" Lupin began hastily.
"It is necessary," Dumbledore cut him off, his tone was resolute. "If you won't accept it, then I would sooner call off the mission entirely."
Lupin froze. Even McGonagall beside him turned to Dumbledore in evident surprise.
Clearly, she had known nothing of this beforehand either.
After a moment's silence, Lupin finally relented under the weight of Dumbledore's gaze and asked, resigned, "Fine. Who is it?"
The corner of Dumbledore's mouth curled into a knowing, meaningful smile. "Her."
He paused, then said, deliberately, word by word:
"Nymphadora Tonks—she came to me herself, and asked to go with you."
Lupin: Σ(°△°|||)︴
You can read more than 40 chapters on:
patreon.com/MikeyMuse