HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

June 24, 1995.

The third and final event of the Triwizard Tournament was set to begin that evening.

The day had dawned without a single cloud in the sky a brilliant, unblemished blue, like an enormous gemstone stretched overhead. Golden sunlight poured down unchecked, warming the stone walls of Hogwarts Castle until they practically glowed. It was, by every measure, a perfect day for an outdoor showdown.

That morning, the Great Hall was alive with noise and energy.

The long tables were heaped with lavish breakfast dishes, silver cutlery winking in the early light. The air smelled of toast, sizzling bacon, and pumpkin juice, all mingling with the excited chatter of students.

The loudest tables, by far, were Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.

Nearly every young witch and wizard wore the same expression: buzzing, barely-contained anticipation. After all, it was these two houses that had produced the three champions of the Triwizard Tournament.

Sherlock Holmes.

Harry Potter.

Cedric Diggory.

Through the first two events, they had secured a commanding lead for Hogwarts. They carried the school’s honor on their shoulders and everyone knew it.

At the Gryffindor table, Hermione was absently stirring a bowl of porridge she’d barely touched, brow furrowed, lips pressed thin. Ron was poking listlessly at a piece of smoked fish, his gaze drifting toward the Ravenclaw table every few seconds. Ginny held a cup of pumpkin juice in both hands, taking small sips, the worry in her eyes plain whenever she looked at Harry.

And yet, the two champions sitting in their midst seemed almost out of place.

They were far too calm.

Sherlock lounged against the back of his chair with an air of complete ease, methodically cutting through a grilled sausage. He looked less like a competitor on the eve of a dangerous final event and more like a man contemplating a leisurely morning stroll.

Harry was doing his best to appear equally composed and mostly succeeding though his eyes occasionally wandered, hinting at thoughts he wasn’t quite sharing. His appetite, at least, seemed fine. His plate was nearly empty.

Sherlock and Gemma had stayed far longer than expected at the Headmaster’s office the night before, and had afterwards slipped down to the kitchens for a late supper.

After that, Gemma full of energy and apparently unwilling to let the night go to waste had made a request: she had spent seven full years at Hogwarts, she said, but had never truly explored the Forbidden Forest. Wouldn’t Sherlock take her?

Sherlock, who hadn’t wandered into the Forest in some time himself, agreed without hesitation.

By the time he returned to Gryffindor Tower, damp with night dew and unhurried, their friends had long since surrendered to the exhaustion of exam week and gone to bed.

Which meant none of them had heard how his earlier reconnaissance of the Quidditch pitch now transformed into a maze had gone.

”Sherlock, you went to the Quidditch pitch last night to have a look, didn’t you?” Hermione finally set down her spoon and looked at him with unconcealed curiosity. ”What was it like? We waited for you in the common room for ages.”

Harry and Ron both stopped what they were doing and looked over.

”Nothing we can’t handle,” Sherlock said calmly.

The words were simple, but the entire group quietly exhaled.

That was the thing about Sherlock Holmes. When he said nothing we can’t handle, there was every possibility that he meant the situation was quite serious. But if he said it, he’d already figured out how to handle it and that was enough.

”My main concern is that my scar doesn’t start hurting inside the maze.” Harry pressed a hand instinctively to his forehead, to that jagged lightning bolt. ”If it does, I’ll only slow you both down.”

He glanced across at the Hufflepuff table as he said it. Cedric was surrounded by a crowd.

Before Sherlock could respond, Hermione suddenly sat up straighter, and a small, secretive smile spread across her face.

”Don’t worry about that, Harry.”

When he turned to her with a questioning look, she said: ”I’ve found a solution.”

”What?!”

Harry sat bolt upright.

He knew that even throughout the grueling exam week, Hermione had spent every spare moment in the library all in hopes of solving the problem that had been troubling Harry the most. But he hadn’t actually expected her to succeed. Dumbledore hadn’t even come to speak with him about it yet.

”I have Sherlock to thank for the idea,” Hermione added, casting a quick glance in his direction.

It was something Sherlock had said about keeping Voldemort’s thoughts locked outside his mind that had first given her a spark of inspiration. The theory had been there. But without the knowledge to back it up, inspiration alone wasn’t enough. It had taken weeks of digging before she’d finally found the answer she was looking for.

Harry was just opening his mouth to ask what the solution was when Colin Creevey and his younger brother Dennis came charging over to the Gryffindor table.

Both boys had bright red cheeks and lit-up eyes. Harry swallowed his question.

”Harry, good luck!” Colin punched the air enthusiastically, the camera hanging from his neck swinging with the motion.

”Thanks, Colin,” Harry said, smiling.

”Harry, good luck!” Dennis echoed, just as loudly, his small face flushed with excitement.

”Thank you too, Dennis!”

The brothers chattered away at Harry for several minutes with cheerful, tumbling good wishes, until Colin abruptly turned to Hermione and held out his beloved camera.

”Granger, could you take a photo of us with Harry? Right now, before the last event! It’ll be a proper commemorative picture!”

He knew that both Sherlock and Hermione, as Muggle-born, could operate a Muggle camera with ease but compared to the prickly Sherlock, Hermione was decidedly the more approachable option.

”I had a feeling this was coming,” Harry muttered, shaking his head.

He’d seen it the moment Colin appeared with that camera round his neck. He’d known exactly what was about to happen.

Hermione didn’t answer right away. She glanced at Harry with a questioning look.

Harry nodded. He was too good-natured to refuse.

Hermione took the slightly battered camera and studied the controls for a moment. The two brothers immediately flanked Harry, each grabbing one of his arms with the grip of someone convinced he might bolt and threw up matching peace signs at the lens, grinning from ear to ear.

Sandwiched between them, Harry managed a wide, slightly resigned smile of his own.

Hermione pressed the shutter.

Click.

The moment was captured.

Colin took the camera back with great care, examining the result. A touch of special ink later, and the photograph would come to life the Creevey brothers’ preferred kind of souvenir.

The two of them high-fived, whistled, and practically vibrated with joy before finally moving off.

Harry rubbed his arm where they’d been gripping it and drew a long breath, silently praying that no one else would come to cheer him on. If this kept up, he’d be exhausted before the maze even started.

As for Hermione’s solution to the scar problem, he had forgotten about it entirely.

Just then, he sensed someone approaching.

Harry braced himself inwardly, already preparing to muster another polite smile for another enthusiastic fan.

He turned and found himself looking at the graceful, familiar face of Cho Chang.

The weariness vanished from his expression in an instant. It was as though someone had topped up all his reserves at once.

”You’re more popular than I expected,” Cho said with a teasing smile. ”We tried to come over earlier, but we couldn’t even get through the crowd.”

”We?” Harry asked.

He looked past her and noticed Luna standing beside Sherlock, having apparently drifted over while Harry was distracted. Luna was watching Sherlock with her usual wide-eyed curiosity.

”Are you planning to punch anyone in the nose inside the maze today?” she asked him, perfectly earnest.

She clearly hadn’t forgotten their previous conversation on the subject.

The others suppressed laughter. Sherlock, however, considered the question with complete seriousness.

”It depends on the circumstances,” he said.

Harry smiled at the exchange, then turned his full attention back to Cho, and the two of them fell into easy conversation.

The difference was palpable. With everyone else this morning, Harry had been performing, friendly, grateful, ever-smiling, but tired. With Cho, the tiredness simply wasn’t there. Everything felt effortless. His smile came naturally, and the world around him seemed to soften and brighten all at once.

Nearby, Luna was one of the rare few who could stay in conversation with Sherlock for any length of time without being driven off by his cool detachment. He took her strange questions with unusual patience. They chatted with an ease that occasionally left even Hermione struggling to get a word in edgeways.

”Ahem. Harry.” Ron cut in at an inopportune moment, already gathering his bag. ”Magical History starts in ten minutes.”

Harry’s face creased into a frown. A flicker of irritation crossed his expression as he looked at his best friend.

As a Triwizard champion, Harry was technically exempt from the end-of-year examinations. Ron really didn’t need to bring this up right now.

Ron caught his look and shrugged helplessly. ”You’re still sitting in on all the exams anyway, aren’t you?”

Harry blinked.

Oh. Right.

He was, actually. He’d been doing it for every exam so far. He reached up and scratched the back of his untidy black hair, feeling faintly embarrassed.

It wasn’t really his fault. Spending time with Cho had a way of making him forget absolutely everything else.

”I won’t be going today,” Harry said, casting a quick, decisive glance at Cho whose eyes held the trace of an amused smile and making up his mind on the spot.

Ron: （￣︿￣）

So much for loyalty.

Before Ron could say his complaint, Professor McGonagall came striding down the length of the Gryffindor table toward them. She noted the presence of Cho and Luna, two Ravenclaws at the Gryffindor table with a brief flicker of surprise, but said nothing about it.

Her gaze swept over the two nearly-empty plates in front of the champions.

”Mr. Holmes, Mr. Potter, once you’ve finished breakfast, please make your way immediately to the antechamber adjoining the Great Hall.”

Harry startled, and his fork clattered against the plate.

”But Professor—the task doesn’t start until this evening, does it?”

For a moment, he genuinely wondered if he’d got the time wrong.

”I’m aware of that, Potter,” McGonagall said briskly. ”But the champions’ families have been invited to watch the final event. You’ll want to greet them first.”

And without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and was gone.

”Families?” Harry stared after her, bewilderment written plainly across his face.

What was going on?

Were Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon actually here?

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