HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

In the Transfiguration classroom, sunlight came through the windows and fell across Professor McGonagall’s square spectacles, casting a stern gleam.

Her voice rang out, clear and grave, through the silent classroom.

”Every examination paper has been specially enchanted with the most rigorous anti-cheating spells, far more powerful than any of you can imagine.

Self-Answering Quills are strictly forbidden inside the examination hall, as are Remembralls, Crib-Sheet Pocket Scrolls, and Auto-Correcting Ink—all prohibited items. Anyone caught in possession of them will have their examination results cancelled immediately and face severe punishment.

I regret to inform you that every year, there appears to be at least one student who believes they can outwit the Wizarding Examinations Authority and attempts to cheat. Every one of them has suffered the consequences.

I can only hope that this year, that student will not be from Gryffindor.”

”It’s only cheating if you get caught. If you don’t get caught, it’s just a good mark, right?”

While McGonagall’s attention was elsewhere, Ron tilted his head slightly and murmured in a voice only Sherlock and Harry could hear—his expression was touched with a sly grin.

”Quite right, my dear Ron.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow; his tone was edged with dry amusement.

”If you could actually cheat without getting caught, that would indeed be a genuine skill.

However, I don’t believe you possess that kind of ability. Neither the technique for cheating, nor the composure required to face an invigilator.”

”...Sherlock, when it comes to cutting remarks, you really do have a talent for it.”

Ron rolled his eyes, thoroughly exasperated, and had no choice but to turn back and carry-on taking notes.

The first examination—Charms Theory was scheduled for Monday morning.

In the days leading up to the exams, a restless, anxious energy had settled over Hogwarts like a fog.

Every fifth-year student, Sherlock excepted, had fallen into a state of extreme tension.

Some went without sleep night after night, clutching copies of The Standard Book of Spells and cramming until the words blurred.

Others seized every spare moment to practise, to the point where, at mealtimes, one could spot pairs of dishes skidding around each other in circles on the table.

Hannah Abbott, the Hufflepuff prefect, broke down entirely during Herbology, bursting into tears without any warning.

Her reason: she felt too stupid to sit the exams, and wanted to leave school that very moment.

She was taken to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey administered a calming draught.

Even Draco Malfoy who had been telling anyone who would listen that he had connections and had nothing to worry about proved no exception.

On more than one occasion, he was spotted quizzing Crabbe and Goyle on his recitations of The Standard Book of Spells.

The trouble was that his two companions did not appear particularly bright.

Malfoy would finish an entire passage, and still they hadn’t caught up with him.

In the end they could only nod along vacantly, making for a thoroughly useless study arrangement.

The afternoon before the exams, Malfoy suddenly stepped into Sherlock’s path in the corridor.

He glanced left and right, confirming that no one nearby was paying attention, then approached Sherlock with an illegible expression.

Still, the handful of students who did catch sight of the exchange looked distinctly surprised.

Everyone knew that Slytherin and Gryffindor did not get along.

And yet even with ten times his usual courage, Malfoy would never dare provoke Sherlock.

All the more so now, when Crabbe and Goyle weren’t here to flank him.

That he had gone out of his way to find Sherlock at all only made the whole thing seem stranger.

”Go ahead and laugh if you want to, you—”

When he caught the expression on Sherlock’s face, that faint, unreadable half-smile—Malfoy’s cheeks flushed red at once. He looked for all the world like an insulted peacock, and his voice took on a sharp, bristling edge.

”I don’t imagine you called me over just to gloat.”

Sherlock gave a laugh and stared at him with a close gaze.

”Go on, then. What does your father Lucius want to say to me or rather, what message has he sent you to deliver?”

”How did you kn—never mind!”

Malfoy had been about to demand to know how Sherlock had guessed it was his father’s doing, but swallowed the question before it left his mouth. He drew a slow breath, wrestled down his irritation, and said plainly:

”That man—you know who I mean.”

He didn’t say the name. Even so, Malfoy’s body gave a shudder, a flicker of fear appeared on his eyes. That name was, for him, something akin to a nightmare—too terrible to speak aloud.

”He may be planning something soon. Something significant.”

Malfoy’s voice had dropped to barely above a whisper—the words were forced out as if through gritted teeth.

Sherlock’s eyebrow arched sharply, ”Is this your father’s doing? He sent you specifically to tell me this?”

”Yes.”

Malfoy gave a stiff nod, his face grew paler. ”He doesn’t know the details—what form it will take, or when it will happen.

He only told me to pass this on to you, to let you—let all of you prepare in advance.”

”So, the Malfoy family has finally made its choice.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curved in a faint smile, his tone carrying a note of genuine approval.

”I must say, it is a very wise choice. At a time like this, the choice one makes matters more than anything.”

Malfoy gave a cold snort, clearly taking no pleasure in Sherlock’s high-handed manner.

”Holmes. I hope you won’t disappoint us. Otherwise—”

But before he could finish, Sherlock cut him off without ceremony, ”Threats at a moment like this are completely without purpose, Mr. Malfoy. This is not children playing house. This is a war of life and death.

Once a choice has been made, there is no room for wishful thinking, and no room for playing both sides. That path leads only to a faster death.”

The colour drained from Malfoy’s face instantly. His expression went cold and hard as stone, his eyes fixed on Sherlock as though he were pressing the image of him into his very bones.

”Even so, please do convey my thanks to your father.”

Sherlock’s tone eased somewhat.

”Thank him for bringing this intelligence to us. And—”

He paused, his expression was turning grave.

”A personal suggestion—for occasions when he passes along messages of this kind, tell him that his first obligation must always be to protect himself and the family.

The situation is shifting by the day. One misstep, and there may be no recovery.”

At those words, the furrow in Malfoy’s brow eased slightly, and a flicker of surprise crossed his eyes. He had fully expected Sherlock to take the opportunity to taunt or threaten him. He had not expected this. This Sherlock Holmes—perhaps he was not quite as insufferable as he had always assumed.

After parting from Malfoy and making his way back to the Gryffindor common room, Sherlock found Harry, Hermione, and Ron converging on him at once.

Hermione’s expression was urgent, her voice hushed to the very edge of hearing.

”Voldemort is making a move—that’s what Malfoy’s message means, isn’t it?”

Ron could only pretend he hadn’t heard that name.

Sherlock gave Hermione an approving look, a glint of recognition in his grey eyes, and gave a slow nod: ”Your parchment and quill—let me have them.”

Hermione understood immediately, reached into her bag without hesitation, and held out a clean sheet of parchment and a quill. She had already guessed what Sherlock intended to do.

Harry and Ron, however, had not yet worked it out—not until Sherlock bowed his head over the parchment and began to write at speed.

”Sherlock, what are you—” Ron rubbed the back of his neck.

Listening to the soft scratch of the quill across the parchment, Harry caught on a moment later, his expression one of sudden realisation.

”Is it for Dumbledore?”

”Yes.”

Sherlock answered without looking up, the nib still moving swiftly across the page.

”If Lucius’s information is genuine, then the most likely form for this ’significant action’ to take would be something involving Azkaban.”

”You mean—he wants to regroup his forces?” Harry asked, his brow was creasing with worry. ”That’s one part of it.”

Sherlock finished the last word, set down his quill, and looked up at him.

”The other part is the Dementors.”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron all frowned at once.

”As I’ve said before—they have no loyalty of their own. They go where the happiness is greatest. Whoever can offer them more will have their service.

The Dark forces Voldemort commands hold a lethal attraction for them.”

Having said this, Sherlock raised a hand and let out a short, sharp whistle.

Watson, who had been happily gnawing at a strip of smoked meat beneath a nearby table, lifted his head at once. His ears pricked alertly, and then he came trotting over, tail wagging, and affectionately butted his head against Sherlock’s hand.

With ease, Sherlock rolled up the parchment, tied it to Watson’s leg with a thin length of twine, and gave his wing a gentle pat.

”Take this to the Headmaster’s office.”

Watson chirped once, spread his wings, and launched himself out through the common room window, vanishing swiftly into the dusk.

”Whatever the truth of this information, I intend to ask Dumbledore to press the Ministry again—to sever ties with the Dementors as soon as possible.” Sherlock returned to his seat and spoke with conviction.

”From the moment Voldemort returned, the Dementors have been a catastrophe waiting to happen.

They are creatures that know nothing but taking. They cannot be trusted.”

Hermione nodded, her expression was earnest with agreement.

”Didn’t Professor Dumbledore mention this? The Ministry has been considering the suggestion—it’s simply never reached a conclusion.”

”They’ve been ’considering’ it far too long,” Harry said, irritation was plain in his voice.

”’Indecision breeds disaster,’” Sherlock said gently. ”By the time something actually goes wrong, it will be far too late to mend it.”

”Well, isn’t that just how those lot always operate?”

Ron had finally found his opening. ”My dad says they’ve got a fixed method for dealing with this sort of thing—”

”What method?” Harry asked, curious.

”First stage: insist nothing has happened.

Second stage: say perhaps something has happened, but we shouldn’t act.

Third stage: say perhaps we should act, but there’s nothing we can do.

Fourth stage: perhaps we could have done something back then, but now it’s too late.”

Harry: ”...”

Hermione: ”...”

Sherlock: (=_=)!!

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