For Gryffindor's fifth-years, Care of Magical Creatures was followed immediately by a double period of Herbology.
Ron had let his guard down during class and gotten ambushed by a Bowtruckle—he hadn't dodged in time so he was running a step behind the others.
It was only as he was leaving the edge of the Forbidden Forest for the greenhouses that he stumbled, quite by accident, onto Sherlock and Malfoy in a private conversation.
Being a Gryffindor, he was never going to let something like this pass him by. He ducked out of sight at once and started eavesdropping.
What he overheard turned out to be a staggering secret.
Sherlock had already struck some kind of arrangement with the Malfoys father and son both as far back as last year!
No wonder Sherlock had said, back on the Hogwarts Express, that even if Malfoy became a prefect, he wouldn't come looking for trouble with them.
So that was why.
Sherlock was still talking. "In fact, even if your father had been there himself that night, nothing would have turned out differently. Wouldn't you agree?"
"That—"
"Don't bother doubting it. It's simply the truth.
"And conversely, it's precisely because he wasn't there that he now has value in that man's eyes.
"Because the servants who might otherwise have been useful to him were all thrown into Azkaban.
That alone is proof enough that your father is safe for now—though it's a safety balanced on a knife's edge."
Hearing what was, presumably, meant as reassurance, Malfoy's face only turned grimmer. "But Father—he's frightened right now! He's afraid the Dark Lord could—at any moment—and he's afraid the Ministry will find some thread to pull on! I think what he means is, we might—we might try—"
Malfoy didn't finish the sentence, but his eyes flickered, and the meaning was plain enough without words.
Under crushing pressure, Lucius had apparently started entertaining the idea of straddling both sides again—unwilling to commit fully to Voldemort, but not daring to openly defy him either.
The Malfoy family wanted, once more, what they'd wanted during the last wizarding war: some delicate balance, some way to keep a door open.
"This is exactly what I meant a moment ago by 'hedging your bets and playing both sides.'"
Sherlock's voice turned suddenly cold and sharp, like a needle dipped in ice, piercing whatever last shred of wishful thinking Malfoy had left.
"Does your father imagine that because he slipped through the last disaster, he might find some crack to survive through this time as well? All I can say to that is—your father was still too young back then to understand that every gift fate hands you has already had its price marked on it in secret."
Sherlock took a step forward, and the sheer pressure of it made Malfoy retreat half a step without thinking.
"Listen carefully, Draco Malfoy."
Sherlock's voice wasn't raised, but it carried an authority that admitted no argument.
"The times have changed. Now that Voldemort has returned, neither you nor your father should be harbouring any illusions. Don't fantasize that Hogwarts and Dumbledore can serve as your father's last fallback.
Voldemort won't tolerate ambiguity of position either. At this point in time, whether you throw in with Voldemort or with Dumbledore, it carries enormous risk—either could get you killed. But trying to please both sides at once, trying to stay so-called neutral, sitting the fence between them—"
Sherlock paused, his gaze burning as it fixed on Malfoy's terrified grey eyes.
"—that is the fastest way to die, and the most worthless death of all.
Voldemort will read it as outright betrayal, as disloyalty through and through—purging you would be inevitable. And the side fighting against him will never trust a former Death Eater family that hedges and wavers, that could turn coat again at any moment.
Your father right now is standing on the one narrow path between two high walls, and both walls are closing in on him. And at a moment like this, he's still hoping to look both ways, still searching for some third road? That will only get him crushed between the two walls at once.
Since you came to me today looking for an answer, I'll give you one.
Tell your father: his only way out is to choose a side, and then bet everything on it. As for which side—"
Sherlock smiled. "That's his decision to make. It has nothing to do with me. Remember—a pawn doesn't get the privilege of sitting the fence."
Malfoy went completely stiff.
Sherlock's words hit him like ice water poured over his head, shattering whatever unrealistic hope he still had left. He opened his mouth as if to argue back, only to find he couldn't force out a single coherent word.
His father, pacing restlessly in the manor's study. His mother's face, drained to a deathly paleness. And the Death Eaters who'd once called his father brother-in-arms, now thrown into Azkaban—
All of it together left nothing in him but a deep, hollowing fear and a kind of blank despair.
Ron, crouched behind the shrubbery, didn't dare so much as breathe too loudly.
He'd only caught fragments, but words like "Voldemort," "Death Eaters," "hedging bets," "crushed," and "bet everything" had still cut through clearly enough into his ears.
His heart was in an uproar. It was pounding against his ribs.
Merlin's beard!
Sherlock hadn't told a single one of them about any of this!
Just then, Sherlock seemed to sense something. His sharp eyes flicked, subtly, toward the direction where Ron was hiding, and then he turned back to the shell-shocked Malfoy.
"Draco Malfoy, I've said what I came to say. How you choose is your father's business. But remember—hesitation has a cost, and I doubt your family can afford to pay it twice."
Malfoy stood frozen a few seconds longer, his face gone pale as a ghost's. At last he clenched his jaw hard, shot one last, deep look at Sherlock, and turned to walk away at a brisk pace.
Watching him go—that retreat carrying something close to undignified panic, even Ron couldn't help feeling a flicker of sympathy for Malfoy.
A moment later, without even turning around, Sherlock said, "My dear friend, how much longer do you intend to hide there? Come out now, or you'll be late for Herbology."
Ron poked his head out from behind the shrubbery, a little sheepishly, and met Sherlock's not-quite-smiling look. "How long have you known I was there?"
"From the moment you took up your position," Sherlock said, gesturing toward the bush. "You haven't yet trained yourself to hide in there without drawing my notice—especially not while I'm talking about Voldemort."
Ron: "—"
After an awkward stretch of silence, Ron sighed. "All right, I should've known it'd be something like this. But what was that just now—why would Malfoy—"
"Isn't it obvious?"
Sherlock glanced once more in the direction Malfoy had gone, then set off walking toward the greenhouses, motioning for Ron to keep pace.
"Lucius and Barty Crouch Jr. are simply two entirely different breeds of person. In Lucius's eyes, his own personal interests matter far more than anything so grand as 'fighting for the Dark Lord.' He'd only commit fully if he could be certain his old master was guaranteed to come out on top—and unfortunately for him, as things stand at present, Voldemort can't offer him that certainty.
When I gave my warning earlier, I was, in effect, handing them an opening. It seems they've decided to take it."
"But—but what's even the point of that? Turning Lucius into our spy?"
"Him?" Sherlock shook his head, faintly contemptuous. "With his abilities, I doubt he's up to the job. Not everyone can keep their true self hidden right under Voldemort's nose."
On that particular point, at least, Snape really was remarkable.
Ron's body gave an involuntary shudder; he pretended he hadn't heard that name, and said instead, thoughtfully, "So that's why you had Lucius tell him everything, straight and true."
"A single lie usually needs a hundred more lies to prop it up. Since Voldemort's so curious about exactly how I saw through his scheme, why not just tell him?"
Sherlock said this with a smile. "And don't forget Tom Riddle's diary, either.
Looked at from that angle, Lucius has actually done us quite a favour. And, in the same stroke, dealt Voldemort a nice hard stab of a blow."
Ron: "..."
Honestly, is this what it's like living as your own desensitization exercise around the clock?
Carrying that uneasy feeling with him, Ron walked up to the greenhouse door, exchanged a quick greeting with Harry and Hermione, who were waiting there and then noticed the two of them were looking at him with a distinctly odd expression.
There was teasing in their eyes, and more than a little knowing amusement. It made Ron's skin crawl.
"What's with you two? Why are you both looking at me like that?"
Ron instinctively tucked the hand wrapped in a handkerchief behind his back, his tone a bit stiff.
"Not 'both,'" Sherlock said with a light laugh. "I wasn't looking at you like that at all."
Ron: "..."
"..."
"As for why you're being looked at like that—naturally, it's because of how much more attentive Lavender Brown was toward you just now, compared to how she treats the rest of your classmates."
Sherlock rattled it off at speed: "The frequency with which she kept looking at you last class, her tone when she spoke to you, and how anxious she got after you were hurt—
It's fairly obvious. She's fond of you. And not in the ordinary classmate sort of way."
Harry nodded along beside him, the teasing in his eyes only growing more distinct.
Ron's face went red in an instant, red from cheek to ear-tip, matching his hair.
He opened his mouth, but couldn't find a single word to throw back. In the end all he could do was glare hard at Sherlock, cursing him a thousand times over in his head.
To change the subject, Ron drew a deep breath and looked up at the sky.
It hung grey and heavy, thick with cloud, seemingly still undecided about whether to rain. The wind carried a faint damp chill.
He'd meant to bring up what had happened between Sherlock and Malfoy, but with so many ears around, he thought better of it and tossed out a new topic instead. "So, what did you two think of Care of Magical Creatures just now? I thought Professor Grubbly-Plank was pretty interesting."
"She really wasn't bad. You could tell from how everyone responded—Professor Grubbly-Plank is a good deal better than Hagrid."
Hermione said it lightly enough, but the moment the words left her mouth, she caught Harry's look landing on her.
There was unmistakable disapproval in his eyes.
This time, though, she didn't immediately back down to placate him. Instead, without quite meaning to, she drifted a little closer to Sherlock's side.
Watching that, and then glancing at Sherlock, Harry fell silent for several seconds before finally saying, flat and firm: "She'll never be as good as Hagrid."
Even as he said it, though, Harry knew well that Professor Grubbly-Plank's teaching really was solid enough—textbook, even, close to exemplary. Her love for magical creatures was, in its own way, no less than Hagrid's. And in fact, compared with Hagrid's rather singular tastes, her preferences ran a good deal more toward the ordinary, easier for most people to relate to.
More to the point, she was one of the few teachers lately who hadn't been drilling the importance of the O.W.L.s into them at every turn.
It was, inevitably, winning her a fair amount of goodwill from everyone.
And it was precisely because of that, that Harry found himself all the more irritated.
There were moments he almost wished he could stop being so reasonable about it—just let his life run entirely on emotion for once.
Just then, the greenhouse door in front of them swung open, and a knot of fourth-years spilled out, laughing and talking.
Their school robes were smudged with dirt, and they carried little baskets of herbs. Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, both.
"Hi, Harry!"
A familiar voice rang out. Ginny came pushing out of the crowd.
The moment she stepped outside, the wind caught her red hair and tousled it into disarray. But the instant she spotted Harry, her eyes lit up all at once, and a bright smile broke over her face. "You two just came from Care of Magical Creatures, didn't you? How was it?"
"Pretty good, actually."
Looking at Ginny's face and that radiant smile, Harry felt his own mood lift a little.
Taking in something beautiful really does put a person in better spirits.
He couldn't help telling her a bit more about the whole business with the Bowtruckle.
While Harry and Ginny were chatting, Luna wandered out of the greenhouse as well.
Next to the others, she looked considerably more dishevelled. A smear of brown dirt sat on her nose, her hair was knotted into a messy tangle on top of her head, and a dried leaf was pinned somewhere on her robes.
Much the way Ginny had reacted at the sight of Harry, the moment Luna's protuberant eyes landed on Sherlock, they lit up with excitement, and she came hurrying over to him.
Her face was full of anticipation as she asked, "Sherlock, how was class just now?"
"A very interesting lesson."
There was a clear trace of dry amusement in Sherlock's tone.
"The Bowtruckle's rather aggressive display was ample confirmation of Professor Grubbly-Plank's theory—the little creatures' defensive mechanisms proved quite effective indeed. And our friend Ron here provided the class with an invaluable practical demonstration. A pity you two missed the moment he got attacked."
Ron's face went red again, and he instinctively tried to hide the hand wrapped in its handkerchief behind his back.
At that, Ginny's gaze flicked briefly to the handkerchief on Ron's hand, and the corner of her mouth twitched into the faintest press of a smile.
At the same time, she drifted faintly a little closer toward Harry, and even her voice softened as she said, "That does sound like it was quite something."
"Bowtruckles? They really are charming, aren't they?"
Luna, for her part, seemed to have caught none of the teasing in Sherlock's tone at all, entirely lost in her own private world. "Those little creatures can see things we can't—things like Nargles, or the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, and creatures of that sort—
"Oh, and yes—they can also guide lost witches and wizards home, you know."
As she spoke, she reached out a hand, as though to brush away some dust from Sherlock's shoulder that wasn't actually there.
Hermione: (¬_¬")
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