HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

Faced with the pink-lacquered hand that Dolores Jane Umbridge had raised with deliberate graciousness, Professor Grubbly-Plank responded with nothing more than a cool nod.

Her signature cloud of wild brown hair swayed slightly with the movement. Her gaze skimmed past Umbridge’s cloying smile and landed on an empty seat at the far end of the staff table with no intention of returning the gesture.

The smile on Umbridge’s face stiffened for just a moment, a faint, unnatural flush crept into her powdery cheeks. Her fingers curled in. She quickly disguised the motion as adjusting her cuff, withdrew her hand, and raised her goblet to take a long sip—concealing that flash of embarrassment behind the glass.

She didn’t even notice that the condensation on the goblet’s surface had dampened her fingers.

As Professor Grubbly-Plank pulled out her chair and sat down, the two heavy oak doors at the entrance to the Great Hall carved with trailing vines creaked slowly open.

Professor McGonagall entered, striding with steps in her dark-green robes. Her expression was grave, and the lenses of her glasses caught the light from the chandeliers. As her gaze swept across the hall, the pockets of chatter that had persisted fell gradually silent. A long line of timid first-years trailed behind her.

For some reason, this year’s intake seemed particularly young even by the usual standard. Each of them was dressed in a brand-new black robe; one child’s hem dragged along the floor and was accidentally trodden on by the student behind, sparking a small flurry of startled gasps.

They pressed close to the heels of whoever walked ahead, shoulders hunched, stumbling into the magnificent hall like a procession of ducklings who hadn’t quite learned to walk in a straight line.

Above, stars and drifting ribbons of magical light moved slowly across the enchanted ceiling, casting their glow over the upturned faces of the new students—faces lighting with excitement and suppressed dread.

Their fingers clutched the hems of their robes without thinking. Some pressed their lips tightly together, as though they had forgotten how to breathe.

As she always did, Professor McGonagall carried a small wooden stool in the crook of her left arm, and balanced on top of it sat the ancient, battered Sorting Hat. Along its fraying brim ran a wide split—the very mouth through which it would soon sing and sort.

At the sight of it, the group around Sherlock abandoned their questions about Umbridge and turned their eyes toward the bewildered new arrivals instead.

It wasn’t only the Gryffindor table. All across the Great Hall, the low hum of conversation seemed to have been switched off at the source, fading into stillness. Every gaze was drawn as if by an invisible thread toward the ceremony that was about to begin.

The first-years, now the centre of attention, lined up in front of the staff table. Their small figures stood in crooked rows, visibly straining to appear composed.

Facing the hundreds of eyes trained on them from every older student in the hall, most of their faces had gone pale. Some of the children began to tremble slightly, their lips moving in what looked like silent prayers.

The teachers and older students watched with knowing smiles. It was, after all, an unspoken tradition at Hogwarts: teachers, parents, and senior students all kept the details of the Sorting Ceremony to themselves, allowing the new arrivals to build it up in their imaginations—anticipating whatever was coming with a mixture of excitement and dread.

One might even call it the first lesson of their Hogwarts education.

For those with a particularly mischievous streak—the Weasley twins being the prime example, deliberate terrorising of younger students was practically a sport.

Fred Weasley had once described the Sorting to Ron in such vivid, horrifying detail that Ron had genuinely believed he would be made to wrestle a troll. When the truth had finally been revealed, Ron’s only comment had been: I’m going to kill Fred.

The next moment, the seam along the Sorting Hat’s brim opened slowly, like a mouth preparing to speak, and it began—as it always did—to sing in a loud, rough voice that carried to every corner of the hall:

”Long ago, when I was new, and Hogwarts barely just begun, the four great founders walked as one, convinced their bond would not be done. They never dreamed that one fine day they’d find themselves set far apart—”

The Sorting Hat had barely managed a few lines before Sherlock’s fingers, tapping idly on the edge of the table, went still.

It was true that the Hat’s song changed every year but the substance always ran along familiar lines: a celebration of the four founders’ achievements, an account of Gryffindor’s courage, Ravenclaw’s wisdom, Hufflepuff’s loyalty, and Slytherin’s cunning, followed by a restatement of its own solemn duty to sort.

The opening bars of this year’s song, however, carried a tone that was markedly different from anything before.

”—set far apart—”

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened.

The others hadn’t caught it yet. Ron was propping up his chin with one hand, quietly willing the ceremony to end so he could eat. Hermione was watching the first-years with interest, glancing over at Sherlock every now and then.

Harry’s eyes were on the new students too, though his mind had drifted back to the moment years ago when the Hat had placed him in Gryffindor. Ginny’s gaze, as ever, had settled on Harry, her mind still turning over the bold idea that had come to her not long ago.

Sherlock’s grey eyes moved without expression across the staff table and caught Dumbledore’s gaze coming back to meet his. The headmaster sat in his high seat, silver beard gushing down his chest. The blue eyes that usually held such warmth now carried, just briefly, a shadow of something grave.

They looked at each other. No words. No gesture. And yet each knew precisely what the other was thinking.

What followed from the Sorting Hat confirmed it.

The song went on longer than usual this year. Its melody was lower and slower than in previous years—the sound of something being unearthed from deep silence. Even without attending to every word, certain phrases floated up, unmistakable to anyone who was listening:

”—what friends in all the world could be as dear as Slytherin and Gryffindor? How could such goodness come to grief? How could such friendship be no more?—”

”—there came a time the school itself stood balanced on the edge of ruin— quarrels without end, and strife, and friends who made of friends their foes—”

”—my duty has not changed, yet this year I must say rather more: history’s lesson stands as warning—enemies press at every door—”

”—I have spoken plain. I have given you my warning—”

The song ended. The Hat sat motionless on its stool, looking once more like nothing but an old, battered piece of headwear.

Applause followed, as it always did but sparser than usual, and touched with hesitation. Beneath it, whispered conversation rippled along the tables, students were leaning toward one another, their expressions caught between confusion and unease.

”It was a bit off-script this year, wasn’t it?” Ron said, frowning, his fingers turning an empty plate over in his hands without thinking. When was the food coming?

Harry nodded. ”It only ever talks about the four Houses, normally.”

”Has it ever given a warning like that before?” Hermione asked, looking toward Sherlock with curiosity. ”What do you make of it?”

”It has, miss. It has.”

Before Sherlock could answer, a translucent figure passed directly through Neville’s body—Nearly Headless Nick. His nearly-severed head tilted at an angle as he leaned across Neville’s shoulder, his silver form was glimmering in the candlelight.

The sudden intrusion made Neville go rigid. The colour drained from his face in an instant; he hunched instinctively, wrapping both arms around himself. It couldn’t really be helped. Having a ghost pass straight through your body was the sort of thing that unsettled anyone.

Nick, however, appeared entirely unaware of this, and pressed on with the enthusiasm of someone who had been waiting for an audience:

”As for the Hat itself—it considers it a moral obligation to issue appropriate warnings to the school whenever it senses that the school is facing a threat of extraordinary magnitude.

In my long years of life—that is to say, my years of living, and the several centuries since, I have heard the Sorting Hat deliver such a warning on more than one occasion.”

He paused, his tone becoming serious. ”The substance is always the same: unity. Preserve it within. Only then can you withstand whatever threatens from without.”

Silence settled over the four of them as they absorbed this. Harry, Hermione, and Ron all fell quiet, their faces drawn. Sherlock gave a small nod, the shadow of understanding was moving behind his grey eyes.

Nick’s words had confirmed what he had already begun to suspect.

At just that moment, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and lifted the scroll of parchment in her hand, breaking the silence as she called the first name:

”Euan Abercrombie!”

The first boy called took a deep breath, balled his hands into fists, and walked to the stool with quick, determined steps. Professor McGonagall settled the Hat over his head. A brief pause—and then the Hat shouted: ”GRYFFINDOR!”

The Gryffindor table erupted in applause and cheering. The boy’s face broke into a smile of relief, and he ran to take his place.

The Sorting proceeded steadily. One by one, students were called forward, the Hat announced its verdict, and waves of cheering rose and fell across the hall. The last student was a girl named Rose Zeller; when the Hat cried ”HUFFLEPUFF,” the Hufflepuffs leapt to their feet to welcome her.

With the Sorting complete, Dumbledore rose slowly to his feet. He said nothing at first only looked out across the hall with his usual gentle expression, raised his goblet, and said in that resonant voice of his: ”Tuck in.”

Two simple words, and Ron very nearly fell off his chair with joy.

Hogwarts feasts, after all, never disappointed.

Start-of-term banquets, Halloween suppers, Christmas dinners, end-of-year celebrations, every one of them was loaded with enough food to strain the tables. Tonight was no different: roast chicken, steaks, pies, puddings, fruit, pumpkin juice arriving in what seemed like an endless stream.

For someone like Ron, who had been announcing his hunger for the better part of an hour, it was a dream made real.

”Finally,” Ron breathed, in a tone of profound contentment then immediately seized his knife and fork and began to eat in earnest.

The teachers, too, reached for their cutlery with smiles, and the noise of the hall surged back to life. The smell of food filled the warm air, mingling with laughter and conversation, and the heaviness that the Hat’s song had left behind began slowly, gradually to lift.

By the time everyone was sated and the platters had emptied, Dumbledore rose once more. The hall quieted quickly.

He ran through the usual business, as he always did: the Forbidden Forest remained off-limits, magic was not to be performed in the corridors between lessons, dangerous items were not permitted on school grounds, the full list of school rules applied as ever.

But then he turned to the matter of staffing changes.

”First,” he said, his gaze moving over the students, ”I am pleased to announce that Professor Grubbly-Plank will once again be teaching Care of Magical Creatures.”

Warm applause broke out immediately. Professor Grubbly-Plank rose and inclined her head in a slight bow. During her time covering for Hagrid, her classes had won over students across every year group, the allure of unicorns being, it had to be said was considerable.

”Second: as was mentioned at the close of last term, in light of the return of Voldemort, the Ministry of Magic will be entering into a closer working relationship with Hogwarts.”

A sharp collective intake of breath ran through the hall the moment Dumbledore spoke the name without a flicker of hesitation. It was almost as if the temperature in the room had changed.

More than a few students shot him aggrieved looks as though it had never crossed his mind to spare a thought for the effect of saying that name aloud.

Umbridge’s eyes flickered toward Dumbledore, something was working itself out behind her expression.

”—In order to strengthen students’ preparation in the Defence Against the Dark Arts, this term’s course will be co-taught by Professor Moody, Professor Karkaroff, and Professor Umbridge, working alongside Professor Lupin.”

The presence of Mad-Eye Moody and Karkaroff at the staff table had already given rise to speculation, both had spent the better part of the previous year at Hogwarts in their roles as Tournament judges. When Dumbledore named them, they acknowledged it with little more than a brief nod.

Umbridge, however, stood up.

Very nearly no one noticed at first—she was, when standing, scarcely taller than when seated. I

t was only because Dumbledore, mid-sentence, stopped quite suddenly and looked at her with an enquiring expression and because Umbridge herself gave a forceful little clearing of her throat that anyone registered she had risen at all.

The moment that followed left the entire school, students and staff both, momentarily at a loss.

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