HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

”Sherlock, what did you just say?”

Hearing that this whole business with Sherlock had been arranged by Mycroft, Hermione finally found her voice again.

The shame and indignation on her face from the article’s contents tangled together with the complicated emotions Sherlock’s revelation had just stirred up.

”Mycroft—Mr. Holmes? Why would he do something like that?”

She pointed at the newspaper, at the detailed description of her and Sherlock at Madam Puddifoot’s tea shop, and at the passage insinuating that she and Luna were rivals for his affection, her face flushing red.

”How could he let that horrible woman write something like this!”

Hermione had always despised Rita Skeeter. Because the woman had no professional ethics whatsoever. To grab attention and draw eyes, she’d twist and exaggerate whatever she wrote, piling it on however far it would go.

Content that was thirty percent false and seventy percent true, with no regard at all for how the people involved might feel about it.

Even when she knew perfectly well that doing so would hurt someone.

Especially during last year’s Triwizard Tournament, when she’d gone out of her way from the very start to make herself impossible to ignore.

Unfortunately for her, she’d run into Sherlock Holmes.

In the eyes of the great detective, she was nothing more than an unregistered Animagus who could transform into a beetle—a secret Sherlock saw through almost instantly. By the tournament’s second half, before she’d even had the chance to strike, Sherlock had already caught her.

And handed her straight over to Mycroft.

Hermione had assumed that would be the end of it—that Skeeter would fold up her wings and disappear for good.

She never could have imagined that the woman would resurface in front of her again, in a way like this.

”Oh, and there’s this too!”

Just then, Harry couldn’t help but speak up:

”’A graduate who once shone brilliantly in her years at Slytherin House—former prefect and Head Girl.’”

”Isn’t that obviously talking about Gemma Farley?

”And written so suggestively!

”Sherlock, what on earth was your brother thinking?”

With everyone’s eyes turning toward him, Sherlock remained as calm and composed as ever.

”Actually, the logic behind this is quite straightforward.

Notice—this article contains both details of our Valentine’s Day outing, the three of us, and a vague pointer toward Gemma’s identity.

None of that is information Rita Skeeter could have obtained on her own. It could only have come from someone else.

My dear friends, I can tell you with total confidence: once anyone but me falls into Mycroft’s hands, there is no realistic hope of getting out again.”

At this rather sweeping declaration from Sherlock, the group exchanged glances.

It seemed Sherlock’s confidence in his brother might be running a little too high.

”Sherlock, are you sure absolutely no one can escape him?” Harry couldn’t help asking the question everyone was thinking. ”Anyone. Including me.” Sherlock said this with total certainty.

”Then—”

Harry glanced around and lowered his voice: ”Does that include Voldemort?”

Everyone who’d shown up expecting a little gossip suddenly wore a very different expression.

More than a few people gasped audibly, then began to tremble.

Ron looked around at everyone else and, to his own astonishment, realized his reaction was the calmest of the bunch.

A wave of pride swelled up inside him.

Finally... finally... had I, Ronald Weasley, actually grown up?

”My dear Harry, that’s a fascinating question.”

At that, Sherlock allowed himself the smallest smile, and continued, to the shock of everyone present:

”Yes—that includes him as well. You might not believe this, but the odds of him slipping away are actually somewhat lower than my own.

The real issue is simply how one goes about capturing the fellow and delivering him to Mycroft.”

The group exchanged glances again, at a total loss.

”Let’s get back to the matter at hand.

When you strip it down, this whole thing isn’t worth a second thought.

It’s nothing more than Mycroft wanting to make use of Rita Skeeter’s pen to manufacture a sufficiently eye-catching topic—one capable of redirecting a particular person’s attention.

The target is me. The material is my romantic life. And the purpose is—”

Here Sherlock paused, then said flatly:

”To draw ire.”

”Draw ire?”

Harry was even more confused now.

”Draw whose ire?”

”Mrs. Holmes’s, of course.”

Hermione understood immediately.

She thought back to Christmas at the Holmes house, to Mrs. Holmes’s pointed concern over Mycroft’s marriage prospects, and to the faint discomfort on Mycroft’s face at the time—and found herself both exasperated and amused.

”Good lord—Mr. Holmes threw his own little brother onto the gossip pages just to dodge being nagged about marriage?”

”Obviously. This is, in his estimation, the lowest-cost and most efficient solution available.”

Sherlock picked his knife and fork back up, as if the topic under discussion had nothing to do with him at all.

”Make use of Rita Skeeter’s talent for distorting information to manufacture a topic of social interest. That way, my mother’s attention shifts—from why Mycroft doesn’t have a girlfriend, to why Sherlock has three. It fits his usual methods perfectly. And don’t forget, our family now has a standing subscription to the Daily Prophet.”

”But... isn’t that a bit too—”

Ron looked around at the exaggerated descriptions and insinuations filling his classmates’ newspapers, feeling embarrassed on his friend’s behalf.

”The whole school—no, the whole wizarding world—is going to be talking about this now!

”You, and Hermione, and Luna, and Prefect Gemma...”

”People talking about it was inevitable.”

Sherlock went on eating his breakfast without a trace of concern, as though the matter had nothing to do with him whatsoever.

”Remember: information, in itself, is just noise—distorted and amplified.

Set against the threat Voldemort poses, this doesn’t even register as background noise.

Mycroft has simply chosen a battlefield he considers safe, in order to achieve his tactical goal.

And even setting aside whether he achieves that goal, the simple pleasure of getting to torment me is already more than enough reward for him.”

He looked over at Hermione, still fuming, and at Harry and Ron, both wearing worried expressions.

”Don’t trouble yourselves over it. Let the news spread for a while.”

London. An undisclosed location. A cold, spare office.

Mycroft Holmes sat upright behind his broad mahogany desk, steam curling up from a clay teacup.

Spread open on the desk before him was that day’s Daily Prophet, its front page given over to Rita Skeeter’s article—florid, indulgent, and utterly unrestrained in its embellishment.

His long fingers traced lightly over the headline, THE LION KING’S TANGLED TRIANGLE, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile that was hard to read—satisfaction at a plan gone off well, mixed with a certain relish at the thought of his brother’s reaction.

He lifted the teacup and took an elegant sip of the warm Earl Grey, his gaze drifting out toward London’s overcast sky.

”The catalytic effect should be quite satisfactory, my dear brother.”

He murmured this to the empty air, his voice perfectly level.

”Let’s hope this little post-Valentine’s surprise keeps Mother... satisfied, for the time being.”

He set down the teacup, his fingertips tapping absently against the edge of the newspaper.

”As for the ripples this stirs up in the rumour mill—consider it early practice for adjusting to the side effects of fame.

After all, a lion king’s aura always draws its share of prying eyes.”

The smile on his face deepened, full of brotherly warmth and the satisfaction of having successfully redirected his mother’s attention.

As one might expect, Rita Skeeter’s thoroughly embellished article landed on Hogwarts’s placid surface like a boulder dropped into still water. Over the following days, Sherlock, Hermione, Luna, and even Gemma Farley who had already graduated and left the school—became the hottest topic of conversation in the entire castle.

In the corridors, in classrooms, in common rooms, even in the bathrooms, hushed discussion and knowing looks were everywhere.

The ”triangle” from the headline had, by the students’ own enthusiastic expansion, become a ”quadrangle.”

After all, in the rumour mill, the presence of the excellent former prefect and Head Girl Gemma Farley held its own just fine against the others.

And anyone who’d actually seen Gemma at school, thinking back, could easily recall the difference in how she treated Sherlock compared to everyone else.

As one of the people at the centre of it all, Hermione felt like she couldn’t go anywhere without a spotlight following her.

Whenever she and Sherlock appeared together—even just sitting side by side in the library, she could feel countless eyes burning into her back. She worked hard to keep her composure, but her ears kept betraying her by turning red, and her knuckles went faintly pale from how tightly she clutched her books.

She felt, at once, a secret little thrill at being publicly linked to him this way, and no small amount of irritation at the exaggerated descriptions and the excessive attention.

Unlike Hermione’s discomfort, the other person named in the article—Luna seemed entirely unbothered.

When her fellow Ravenclaws tried to fish for information, she simply said, in that particular dreamy voice of hers:

”Oh, the pink Bibble-Bugs have been especially active lately, particularly around Rita Skeeter.

Buzzing all around her quill, turning the ink strange colours.”

This left her questioner more baffled than before, but it did successfully steer the conversation elsewhere.

As for the last person named—Sherlock embodied, to perfection, everything a lion king ought to be.

Even after picking up, on top of ”Lion King,” the additional nickname ”Master of Love.”

He still went about his business as usual—showing up for class, the library, the common room—entirely indifferent to the whispers around him, as though the article described events unfolding in some other, parallel universe.

He read attentively, completed the homework for his twelve subjects, and occasionally offered Harry or Hermione spell-casting advice precise down to the millisecond. This detached calm ended up doing more than anything else to deflate the wilder rumours on its own.

After all—how could someone truly caught up in a love triangle stay so completely unbothered by it?

Of course, there were also those who read this instead as further proof of the lion king’s unfathomable self-control.

Harry and Ron had both been fairly worried at first.

But seeing how little Sherlock cared, Hermione—irritated as she still was—gradually adjusted too, or at least grew numb to it. Eventually, Ron even took to occasionally lowering his voice and mimicking Rita Skeeter’s overwrought tone to tease Hermione:

”’Miss Granger, cheeks flushed crimson, eyes darting nervously—surely that couldn’t have been the hot coffee alone!’

”Seriously, Hermione, how was the coffee at that place, really?”

”Ron, just because you don’t say anything doesn’t mean people forget you can talk!”

If anything, this whole affair only gave Umbridge another excuse to insert herself.

”The Ministry encourages all young witches and wizards to keep their focus on their studies and on the Ministry’s guidelines.

Anything that risks scattering their attention or encouraging unhealthy tendencies deserves our vigilance and close observation.”

She made a point of seeking out Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall to raise the issue formally.

It accomplished absolutely nothing.

”Professor Umbridge, you were sent to this school by the Ministry as our Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor.”

Dumbledore looked at Umbridge with a pleasant smile, his tone was courteous but carried an unmistakable distance.

”This falls outside your purview.”

”But surely, as a teacher at Hogwarts, I have the right to—”

”Yes, you certainly have the right to raise concerns.”

Dumbledore kept smiling.

”And your concerns have been duly received. Minerva, please make a note.”

”Of course, Headmaster.” Professor McGonagall pulled out her quill, her expression perfectly serious.

”Let the record show that the Ministry’s Senior Undersecretary and Hogwarts’s Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor, Dolores Umbridge, has raised a concern:

That the Daily Prophet’s contributing reporter, Rita Skeeter, published an article making unsubstantiated claims about the private lives of current students Sherlock Holmes, Hermione Granger, and Luna Lovegood, as well as former student Gemma Farley.

Professor Umbridge, rest assured, we will convey this matter, through the school, to both the Ministry and the Daily Prophet, requesting that they rein in the reporter’s conduct.”

Umbridge: ”...???”

Was that really what I meant?

”No—Headmaster, what I meant was—”

”My apologies, but I have other matters to attend to. Minerva, would you see Professor Umbridge out?”

With Dumbledore having so clearly shown her the door, Umbridge, however much more she wanted to say, had no choice but to let it go.

Once Professor McGonagall had escorted her out of the headmaster’s office, Umbridge tried, one last time, to press her case.

”Professor McGonagall, the behaviour of Holmes and the other two students has genuinely disrupted the normal order of teaching here. Surely, we can’t just—”

”Professor Umbridge, as far as I’m aware, those three students you’re referring to happen to rank among the very best in their respective years, academically.”

Professor McGonagall’s expression was stony.

”Please attend to your own duties and refrain from taking on unnecessary ones. The Headmaster and I have other matters to see to, so I won’t see you any further.”

With that, she turned on her back with crisp finality and walked straight back into the headmaster’s office.

Not sparing Umbridge so much as another glance.

Umbridge was left utterly frozen in place.

”Damn it, damn it, damn it!

Why did it turn out like this! It wasn’t supposed to go this way!

I was clearly meant to...”

That night, Umbridge had a dream.

In it, she wasn’t merely appointed the Ministry’s High Inquisitor at Hogwarts, wielding authority that rivalled the headmaster’s own, free to decide the fate of any professor at the school on a whim.

Further still, sometime later, with the help of Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge who thought the world of her—she succeeded in driving out Albus Dumbledore altogether and claimed the position of Headmistress of Hogwarts for herself.

Absolute, unrivalled glory.

In that dream, there was no Sherlock Holmes anywhere to be found.

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