HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

”In a situation where you actually needed to use a Silencing Charm, you certainly wouldn’t announce it first, the way Professor Snape just did—’Here, watch, I’ll show you—’” Hearing Sherlock’s ”Defence” of Snape, Harry, Hermione, and Ron found themselves with nothing left to say.

Then again, it made sense.

In the vast majority of cases, that was simply how Sherlock operated—he dealt in facts, not positions.

By the time the break between classes ended, Harry and Ron returned to the common room and, with great reluctance, began the homework Snape had assigned. As for Sherlock, he went with Hermione to Arithmancy.

As a subject held in the same regard as Ancient Runes, Arithmancy’s difficulty rose sharply in the N.E.W.T. class. Compared to Ancient Runes, this course demanded a higher level of raw intelligence.

Or, put another way, talent.

According to Professor Septima Vector, the entry requirement for this course was the lowest of any subject offered.

As long as you could scrape an ”A”—a bare pass—you could go on to the advanced class.

The trouble was, even so, the N.E.W.T. class for this subject had pitifully few students.

As already noted, the course simply demanded too much natural talent.

Its demands on mathematical ability, in particular, were steep.

As everyone knew, mathematics was the most objective thing there was.

Some people, for example, believed that no one could possibly be too stupid to learn calculus by the age of fourteen.

Which showed just how vast the gap between people could be.

It was often said that constitutions varied so much from person to person that, in a fit of extreme anger, someone might manage feats they otherwise couldn’t.

But mathematics didn’t work that way.

However furious you got, if you didn’t understand it, you didn’t understand it.

This phenomenon was especially distinct in Arithmancy.

Everyone was listening to the same lecture from Professor Vector, and yet Sherlock grasped everything the moment it was said, and could extrapolate three steps further from a single hint.

Hermione, too, could keep pace with the professor’s train of thought.

Everyone else needed a moment to think before they understood why Professor Vector had done something a certain way.

And there were the occasional few who, in the time it took to bend down and pick up a dropped quill, would straighten back up having understood nothing at all.

That was mathematics for you.

By the time class let out, everyone except Sherlock wore the same downcast expression.

Hermione was no exception.

”At least Professor Vector didn’t assign too much homework.”

Hermione said this with some relief at first, then let out a long sigh:

”But even if there isn’t much of it, it’s so hard!”

Just then Padma Patil—twin sister to Parvati Patil, of Ravenclaw joined the conversation.

It came as no surprise that nearly everyone taking this course was from Ravenclaw.

”Sherlock, you always look so relaxed about it—do you really not find it difficult at all?”

”Not exactly,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. ”It was a bit difficult at first.”

”See, I told you—” Padma said, relieved, turning to the other Ravenclaws. ”Even Sherlock says—”

”But once you manage to shift your thinking in time, everything after that is as easy as using Light Charm.”

Sherlock’s gaze swept over the notebook in Padma’s hands as he spoke. ”You’ve got the coordinates wrong in the third line—that range should be closed on the left and open on the right.”

With that, he drifted off with Hermione, leaving the other students staring after him in astonishment.

A flick of the sleeve, and not a cloud carried away with him.

”Sherlock, you really are—”

Hermione thought about it for a long while and still couldn’t find quite the right word for what Sherlock had just done.

She turned it over and over in her mind, and in the end simply gave up.

It wasn’t until lunch that she finally composed herself enough to humbly ask Sherlock for help with the day’s work.

And came away having gained a great deal.

So, it followed naturally that Hermione suggested they do their homework in the common room during the break after lunch.

Where they ran into Harry and Ron, who still hadn’t finished their Defence Against the Dark Arts homework.

”You two didn’t even go to lunch?”

Seeing the two of them scratching their heads in frustration, Hermione couldn’t hide her surprise.

”The homework’s too hard!” Ron said miserably.

Harry said nothing, but nodded gravely all the same.

”How hard can it be?”

Hermione, not quite believing them, flipped open her own homework.

She hadn’t thought any subject this year could possibly be harder than Ancient Runes or Arithmancy.

As it turned out, she’d been right about that.

The moment she and Sherlock arrived in the common room, Harry and Ron’s homework speed picked up considerably.

The reason for this hardly needed explaining.

Watching Ron copy Sherlock’s homework without a shred of guilt, Hermione let out a sigh.

She turned to look at Harry instead, and was somewhat comforted to find that he, at least, knew enough to hold his own work up beside Sherlock’s for comparison.

Even so, by the time Harry and Ron finished, the bell for the two afternoon Potions periods was already ringing.

”We only have Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions today—so why does it feel like there’s never enough time?”

Ron couldn’t help complaining loudly as they made their way down the familiar path to the dungeon classroom.

”Because your IQ isn’t high enough.”

Sherlock said this quite honestly.

Ron: ”…”

Why did I even bother asking!

By the time the four of them reached the corridor outside the dungeon classroom, they discovered, to their surprise, that not many students had come for Potions—fewer than twenty, all told. It seemed that even with Professor Slughorn lowering the entry requirement for N.E.W.T. Potions from ”Outstanding” to ”Exceeds Expectations,” the subject was still too difficult for most students.

Or perhaps some people simply hadn’t heard the news yet.

Another unsurprising fact: the Slytherins who’d come for this class were nearly as numerous as the Ravenclaws.

Gryffindor had only the four of them, and Hufflepuff had just a single student—and a familiar one at that.

Ernie Macmillan.

He was a bit arrogant and full of himself, but also the sort who could admit when he was wrong.

Near the end of last term, though, his habit of asking everyone else about their revision schedules had made him rather tiresome for a while.

”Hey there, Sherlock, Harry!”

Seeing them approach, Macmillan held out a hand and said, putting on airs:

”Didn’t get the chance to talk to you after Defence this morning—you two put in a fine performance!”

”You did too,” Sherlock said evenly. ”Your Shield Charm wasn’t bad—though it would’ve been better without the noise.”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

Macmillan shot Sherlock a sour look, then turned to greet Hermione and Ron instead.

But before the two of them could reply, the dungeon door swung open, and the students filed in.

This room, it was worth remembering, had belonged to Snape for a very long time.

Just as Snape had stamped the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom with his own character, the Potions classroom felt different now that he was gone.

The dungeon was already thick with steam, filled with all manner of strange smells.

Slughorn himself hadn’t appeared yet, but his considerable belly had already made its entrance ahead of him.

His walrus moustache trembled above his smiling mouth, and he was especially warm in greeting Sherlock, Harry, and Zabini. Four Slytherins sat at one table, four Ravenclaws at another, and the four Gryffindors were no exception either.

Which left Ernie Macmillan to sit with one leftover Ravenclaw and one leftover Slytherin.

He fixed Sherlock with a look full of resentment, as though hoping Sherlock might trade seats with him.

Sherlock, naturally, paid him no mind.

At that moment he was gazing with keen interest at a golden cauldron not far from their table, from which curls of fragrant steam were rising. In all honesty, Sherlock had never smelled anything so enticing.

It reminded him of the smell of his mother’s cooking—but it was more than just that.

There was also a kind of happiness in it, the same kind he felt when he found a clue, cracked a puzzle, or caught a culprit—and along with it, a great wave of satisfaction slowly washing over him.

With the knowledge of the magical world Sherlock had accumulated by now, he understood at once exactly what this was.

He glanced to his side and found Hermione looking back at him, her face flushed red.

Clearly, she too knew what this potion was and it had brought back a memory of something.

As for Harry and Ron—

The two fools were doing exactly the same thing: breathing in, slowly and deeply.

Not only that, but both their faces had taken on the besotted grin of lovestruck idiots.

”All right, all right, settle down…”

Once Slughorn saw that everyone had taken their seats, he spoke up: ”Welcome, everyone, to my N.E.W.T. class. First, please take out your scales and your potion kits.

”And don’t forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making…”

Seeing that Harry was still wearing his besotted grin, Sherlock elbowed him without ceremony.

”Sherlock?”

Harry snapped out of his daydream and looked at his best friend, baffled.

That was supposed to be Ron’s move—since when did Sherlock start using it too?!

”Textbook!”

Sherlock tapped a finger against his own copy of Advanced Potion-Making, succinct as ever.

Harry caught on at once and hurried to raise his hand.

Had the Potions professor still been Snape, Harry would never have dared do such a thing.

But with the amusing old fellow Slughorn in charge, it was a different matter entirely.

Then again, if the Potions professor were still Snape, Harry wouldn’t have been sitting in this classroom at all.

”What is it, Harry?”

Sure enough, the moment Slughorn saw it was Harry with his hand up, he stopped mid-sentence and asked kindly.

”I don’t have a book, or scales, or anything, really—neither does Ron—because we didn’t expect to be in the advanced class at all—”

”Ah, right, of course. Professor McGonagall did mention this to me.”

A look of realization appeared on Professor Slughorn’s face.

”Don’t worry, my boy, not a bit of it.

”You can use ingredients from the store cupboard for today, and I’ve got scales to lend you as well.

”There are even a few old textbooks here you can borrow for now—you can write to Flourish and Blotts to order new ones after…”

As he spoke, Professor Slughorn strode to a cupboard in the corner of the room, rummaged around for a moment, and produced two battered, dog-eared textbooks.

They were copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage.

Along with handing the books to Harry and Ron, he passed them two sets of tarnished, faded scales as well.

”He’s really taken a shine to you, Harry,” Ron said, a touch enviously, once he had his book and scales in hand.

Harry sighed.

He knew perfectly well it had everything to do with the legacy his mother had left behind.

”This time it’s for real, though.”

With Harry and Ron sorted out, Slughorn returned to the front of the classroom.

He puffed his already ample chest out further still, until the buttons of his waistcoat looked ready to pop.

”This is your first N.E.W.T. Potions lesson. Having asked Severus what stage you’d all reached, I’ve prepared a few potions to give you an idea of what’s to come.

”By the time you’ve fully completed the advanced course, you ought to be able to brew things like these yourselves.

”You may never have made them with your own hands, but I imagine you’ve heard of them. So—can anyone tell me what this one is?”

As he spoke, he pointed toward the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table.

To look at, it seemed like nothing more than plain water boiling away.

Without hesitation, Hermione raised her hand:

”That’s Veritaserum—a colourless, odourless potion that forces anyone made to drink it to tell the truth.”

Hearing this, Harry couldn’t help glancing over at Sherlock.

He’d actually seen this stuff before, more than once.

Snape had once poured it down the throats of Peter Pettigrew and Barty Crouch Jr., forcing them to give up information that had proven crucial.

”Excellent!”

Pleased to have a volunteer, Slughorn pointed next to the cauldron closer to the Ravenclaw table:

”And this one—here’s a small hint, it’s rather famous… the Ministry’s put out a few pamphlets about it recently, in fact… anyone—?”

Before Slughorn had even finished speaking, Hermione’s hand shot up again, a second triumph.

”That’s Polyjuice Potion, sir.”

”Splendid! And here—this one… what do you say, my dear?”

No sooner had Slughorn pointed to the sweet-smelling vapor rising from the golden cauldron by the Gryffindor table than Hermione’s hand went up yet again. A hat trick, this time.

”That’s Amortentia!”

”Quite right,” Slughorn said, looking thoroughly impressed as he regarded Hermione. ”I don’t think I even need to ask—you’re sure to know what it’s used for?”

”It’s the most powerful love potion in the world!” Hermione said.

”Absolutely correct—and I daresay you recognized it by that distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?”

”Yes, sir—and by the way its steam rises in spirals, as well.”

Hermione went on, clearly enjoying herself: ”And its scent is different for everyone, too—it takes the form of whatever each person finds most appealing.

”I can smell freshly mown grass, new parchment, and—”

At this, she suddenly went scarlet and refused to say another word.

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