HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

Having said goodbye to their fourth-year admirers, Sherlock, Harry, Hermione, and Ron made their way into the greenhouse for Herbology.

The glass dome above their head had been baking in the afternoon sun, and the air inside hung with damp soil, the bitter tang of herbs, and a stubborn undercurrent of dragon dung fertilizer.

The moment they stepped through the door, the young lions couldn’t help wrinkling their noses, instinctively drawing back half a step.

Fourth-years took Herbology alongside Ravenclaw, and the greenhouse still bore the marks of the class that had just left: a few sheets of abandoned parchment, a pair of soil-crusted gloves, and a watering can someone had forgotten to put away in the corner.

Fifth-years, though, shared the class with the Hufflepuffs in their yellow and black.

The Hufflepuff students were already seated around the long table in the centre of the greenhouse talking quietly among themselves.

As everyone expected, the moment Professor Sprout walked in, she set down her sack of fertilizer, cleared her throat, and launched straight into a lecture on the importance of the O.W.L.s.

”Now, children, your O.W.L. results won’t just determine whether you can take N.E.W.T.-level courses, they’ll shape the career you go on to have. Whether it’s healing at St. Mungo’s or a post at the Ministry, top marks in Herbology open doors!”

As she spoke, she gave the copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi on the table a firm pat with her gloved hand, and the pages fluttered in the breeze. ”You must take every practical seriously. You need to know the properties of every plant we cover cold. The smallest slip won’t just cost you marks—it could get you hurt!”

Professor Sprout’s voice echoed through the greenhouse. The lions and badgers exchanged glances, helplessness plain on every face. It was obvious enough that they’d all heard some version of this speech, more than once, in every other class that day.

They say important things bear repeating three times, but by this point almost everyone in the room was thinking the same thing: they sincerely wished every last teacher would just stop bringing it up, because it only wound their already-frayed nerves tighter.

An hour and a half later, Herbology finally ended, and the lions and badgers both were thoroughly worn out.

Sweat beads dotted Harry’s forehead, and the hem of his robes was streaked with dirt. Ron’s bandaged hand still had a few stray tendrils of herb clinging to it, and exhaustion showed plainly on his face.

Hermione’s hair, damp with sweat, was plastered to her cheeks, though she still clutched a sheet of parchment covered edge to edge in notes. Sherlock alone looked considerably more composed than the rest of them though even he hadn’t escaped the thick reek of dragon dung clinging to his robes.

It was Professor Sprout’s favourite fertilizer, and easily the most unbearable smell of the entire class.

That alone would have been enough to leave everyone drained, but then Professor Sprout, packing up her tools, suddenly seemed to remember something and turned back to add: ”Oh, and one more assignment: a nine-inch essay on the effects of dragon dung fertilizer on Mandrake growth. Hand it in before our next class.”

A low groan rippled through the greenhouse at that. Dean actually flopped face-down onto the long table, moaning, ”Merlin’s beard, we’ve already got more homework than we know what to do with!”

At dinner, the four of them sat together at the Gryffindor table, roast potatoes, chicken, and peas laid out in front of them though hardly anyone had much of an appetite.

Ron went first, recounting what he’d seen after Care of Magical Creatures and before Herbology: Sherlock’s meeting with Malfoy.

”Sherlock’s got a point. The Malfoys really don’t have any options left,” Hermione said, her tone was calm and analytical. ”He cost Voldemort a Horcrux. Knowing Voldemort’s temper, he’s bound to want to punish him for it. And that’s without even mentioning that all these years, Lucius never once tried to help Voldemort rise again which, as far as Voldemort’s concerned, is just as unforgivable.”

Harry nodded, then, as if something had just occurred to him, said, ”Do you think he might have handed the diary over to us on purpose—”

”Impossible!” Hermione said flatly. ”There’s no way Voldemort would have told Lucius the diary was a Horcrux—right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded. ”At the time, Lucius thought of it as nothing more than an ordinary Dark artifact. Uncle Weasley had just launched his crackdown on Dark objects, and Lucius naturally jumped at the chance to get rid of it and take a swipe at his old rival while he was at it. Unfortunately for him, through sheer bad luck, it ended up in Lockhart’s hands instead.”

”Best the Malfoys don’t come after us—hmph, otherwise—”

Watching Ron work himself into a fury, Harry couldn’t help a laugh.

With that topic settled, Hermione poked at the chicken on her plate, hesitated, then finally looked up at Sherlock and asked, voice lowered, ”Sherlock—has Professor Moody come to talk to you yet?”

As she said it, her fingers twisted, unconsciously, at the edge of the tablecloth.

Sherlock’s gaze swept over her, and when he caught the worry, she couldn’t quite hide, the corner of his mouth lifted and he gave a soft laugh. ”My dear friend, if I remember correctly, only a few hours ago you were the one telling Harry and Ron they ought to trust me. And now, so soon, you’ve stopped trusting yourself?”

”I know, but—”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue further, but Sherlock cut her off.

”Whether or not Professor Moody has come to some arrangement with Professor McGonagall, I am not going to Umbridge’s office to serve detention.”

Sherlock picked up his cup and took a sip of water, his tone was even but traced an unmistakable bit of finality. ”In fact, I’d rather you not spend your energy on that woman at all. Remember—your time is valuable. Rather than worrying about her petty schemes, you’d do better to spend that thought on the Horcruxes.”

Hermione had no answer for that. She could only lower her head and fall silent.

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, and each saw the same worry reflected back in the other’s eyes.

”Sherlock, listen—” Harry hesitated, then pushed on anyway. Unease weighed down his voice, and his fork jabbed absently at the roast potato on his plate, gouging it full of little dents. ”Are you sure this won’t cause problems? Whatever else, Umbridge is still with the Ministry—”

Hearing Harry ask this, something changed in Sherlock’s expression. His gaze moved over the three friends closest to him at school: Harry’s furrowed brow. Ron chewing at his fingernails without seeming to notice he was doing it. The worry that never quite left Hermione’s eyes.

He saw all of it in. Then he simply set down his cup and rested his chin on his folded hands.

Candlelight from the ceiling of the Great Hall spilled down through the transparent dome above, catching in his grey eyes and making them seem, for a moment, unusually deep. ”It seems the three of you won’t feel at ease until I spell it out properly. So, let me ask you a question instead.”

The three of them nodded without quite meaning to.

”If I refuse to go to Umbridge’s detention, what do you think the worst possible outcome is?”

”Expulsion!” Ron blurted the answer before anyone else could, his voice was cracking slightly with nerves. He set down the hand he’d been gnawing at and leaned forward across the table. ”She’s the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister! She’s got the authority to—”

”She only has the authority to recommend expulsion.” Sherlock cut in, calm as ever. ”The final decision rests with Headmaster Dumbledore and the Board of Governors. Even if I were just an ordinary student, they wouldn’t expel someone over a single accusation from her not when that student hasn’t broken any core school rule. Especially not when the so-called offense amounts to nothing more than refusing to comply with an order that was controversial to begin with.”

At that, Hermione’s eyes lit up. She set down her fork, and her voice took on new certainty. ”Exactly! There’s no rule anywhere in the Hogwarts code that says a student is required to obey a professor’s detention order!”

Neither Harry nor Ron had ever once doubted Hermione’s ability to recite the school rules from memory. Still, Harry couldn’t help adding, ”Even so—normally speaking—”

”Normally speaking, obeying a professor is a student’s duty,” Sherlock said, picking up the thread.

”But that ’normally’ assumes the professor’s instruction is reasonable to begin with. Umbridge’s detention stems from a disputed deduction of points during Defence Against the Dark Arts class, and the confrontation that followed.

And the key point is this: that order was already overruled, on the spot, by Professor Moody. He made it clear he intends to get involved, and Professor Lupin has promised to speak with Professor McGonagall about it. Which means my refusal isn’t some baseless teenage rebellion, it’s a legitimate objection to an unreasonable order.”

Sherlock gave a small, wry aside, then let his gaze move over the three of them again. ”Second: her position is a peculiar one. If this were any other professor at this school, even Professor Trelawney even if a student wanted to push back, they’d still be expected to go through proper channels, like appealing to the headmaster.

But Umbridge is different. The Ministry planting her at Hogwarts was, from the start, meant as a test, an attempt at control. As I told Malfoy myself, not long ago: the times have changed. Voldemort’s return is now public knowledge, and the Ministry is in no position to go interfering with Hogwarts.”

At the sound of that name, Ron flinched, and his fork clattered against his plate with a sharp, ringing clink.

Harry shot him a look and hissed under his breath, ”When are you finally going to stop jumping every time someone says his name?”

Ron gave Harry a wounded look. Oh, very impressive, very high and mighty of you. You didn’t spend your whole childhood being scared witless by the Dark Lord.

”All right, Harry, he’s come a long way from where he used to be,” Hermione said, smoothing things over, before turning back to Sherlock, her eyes bright with anticipation. ”Go on, Sherlock.”

”Much appreciated, Hermione.” Sherlock nodded and continued. ”As I pointed out during Defence Against the Dark Arts, Umbridge is, at this point, largely acting on her own initiative. She wants to prove her worth by cracking down on students, all to impress Fudge.

But she’s already made rather a spectacle of herself: a Senior Undersecretary to the Minister comes to teach at this school, only to be openly defied by a student, publicly struck by her fellow Defence Against the Dark Arts professor no less, then denied her attempt at detention and now, to bring the hammer down, she’d need to resort to something as extreme as expulsion.”

Sherlock paused, and when he spoke again there was a sharper edge of mockery in his voice.

”Umbridge is, without question, both stupid and vicious and the Ministry bureaucrats standing behind her aren’t especially clever either. But when it comes to weighing their own interests, they’re not complete fools. Once things reach that point, the Ministry won’t lift a finger to protect her—they’ll cut her loose, fast.

I’ll wager a Galleon that the moment it happens, the Ministry announces this was entirely Umbridge acting on her own, tosses her out as a scapegoat, and does whatever it takes to calm things down rather than add fresh scandal to a reputation that’s already in tatters.

Which is exactly why she won’t dare push things to the point where the Ministry would have to step in and save her—that would be an admission that her whole assignment here failed.”

Harry seemed to be putting it together, the crease in his brow gradually easing. He ventured, ”So you’re saying—the Ministry won’t burn its bridges with Hogwarts over her?”

”Won’t. Can’t. Dare not.” Sherlock corrected him, his tone certain. ”If Fudge wants to hold on to his already-shaky position, he has no choice but to keep cooperating with Hogwarts. As I said—ever since Voldemort’s return, Hogwarts’s standing as a cornerstone of the wizarding world has become rock solid.

If Umbridge botches this, all it does is expose how weak and unpopular the Ministry already is. They’re far more likely to freeze me out quietly, or find some subtler way to make my life unpleasant, docking points on flimsy pretexts, say, or looking for trouble in other classes. But that sort of petty nuisance isn’t worth a moment of my precious time.”

Ron opened his mouth as if he still had more to say, but Sherlock didn’t give him the chance, pressing on.

”Third and most important: time is life itself. Hermione, I was just reminding you about the Horcruxes. Voldemort has already returned. We still don’t know where the relics of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff have ended up. Dumbledore is stretched too thin to spare us the time.

We cannot afford to waste what little we have. The avalanche of O.W.L. work is only the beginning and spending that time babysitting a stupid, vicious toad would be more foolish, and more intolerable, than taking another jab from a Bowtruckle.”

Ron gave Sherlock a hurt look, the bandage on the back of his hand still plainly visible, as if silently protesting the pain of that very Bowtruckle bite.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed slightly from part embarrassment at having her thoughts read so plainly, part the warm rush of agreement after being talked around.

She nodded firmly, her eyes hardenbed with resolve. ”You’re right, Sherlock. Umbridge isn’t worth this much of our attention. The Horcruxes matter more.”

Harry let out a long breath, as if some of the weight on his shoulders had finally lifted. He picked up his fork and speared a piece of chicken. Then, abruptly, he looked up again. ”I understand but what if she really does come looking for trouble?”

”Then let her.” Sherlock picked his knife and fork back up, his manner as calm as if they were discussing tomorrow’s weather.

”We have Professor Moody. We have Professor Lupin. We have Professor McGonagall. And more to the point—I simply can’t be bothered to play her childish little games. With what little she’s actually got; she can’t touch me.”

He smiled, glancing between Harry and Ron, his tone took on a teasing edge. ”As for the two of you—better to focus on your Vanishing Spells and that mountain of homework. Those are the things you two actually ought to be losing sleep over.”

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