In the Gryffindor common room, the fire crackled in the hearth, throwing warm orange-red light across the lion banners that covered the walls.
The air was thick with the sweet, malty smell of butterbeer, foam piling up in delicate cream-white crests at the rims of copper tankards—much like the smiles Ron and Ginny couldn't quite hold back.
They hadn't let all their effort go to waste, after all. They'd made the House team.
Ron stood up straight, deliberately squaring his shoulders wider, as if that alone could give more weight to the words starting Keeper.
Ginny, meanwhile, had her eyes shining as she clustered with the team's three Chasers; being only a reserve couldn't dim the light in her eyes.
Fred and George were yelling and raising their tankards, the sharp clink of glass mixed with laughter, soaking the whole common room in giddy excitement.
Sherlock glanced at Ron, who had already changed into Gryffindor team robes, and asked, seemingly at random, "Why are you wearing Wood's uniform?"
At the question, Ron's face went instantly, brilliantly red.
His throat worked as he opened his mouth to answer, but a burst of bright laughter cut him off.
Katie Bell had her arm around Alicia Spinnet, swinging her butterbeer mug so the foam nearly sloshed over the rim. "We're the ones who made him try it on!"
She waved Ron over, her voice full of glee. "If Oliver's old robes fit him, we'll just take the name off the collar and put a new one on—come on, come here and turn around, let us see if it fits!"
Ron shuffled over, looking mortified, fingers tugging absently at the hem of the robe.
Not far off, Lavender's eyes lit up at that, and she drifted over too.
Angelina, who'd been standing beside Katie, turned instead and walked straight toward Sherlock.
"Sherlock, there's something I—"
Before she could finish, Sherlock nodded with total certainty. "Yes."
Angelina stopped dead, eyes wide with shock, one hand flying up to press against her chest. "I haven't even said anything yet!"
"You want me to help improve Ron's Quidditch." Sherlock's tone was flat. "I've agreed."
"How—how did you know that?"
"Oh, please, Angelina—"
Fred's voice cut in from the side.
He'd just taken a huge gulp of butterbeer, foam still clinging to the corner of his mouth, but he was grinning as slyly as ever. "Standing right in front of you is Gryffindor's Lion King, the great detective Sherlock Holmes! One look at you and he can tell whether you had toast or porridge this morning—guessing what's on your mind is child's play."
Angelina couldn't help rolling her eyes, but she went along with it anyway. "Fine. That is exactly what I was thinking."
She lifted her tankard and, through the amber liquid, looked over at Ron, still being spun around by Katie.
Her brow furrowed further, fingers picking absently at the side of the glass. "I know he's your friend—yours and Harry's—but going by today's try-out, he's honestly not the ideal choice."
"You mean the boy who spent the whole time frowning and complaining, and the girl whose mind wasn't on the pitch?"
"Merlin's beard!"
Angelina nearly dropped her mug. She stared at Sherlock, eyes wide, voice full of disbelief. "Holmes, how do you even know that?"
"Need you even ask?"
George drifted over too, turning over a glowing Bludger model in his hands—their newest experiment, the kind that explodes when thrown. His grin was a perfect match for Fred's. "Obviously—because he's Sherlock Holmes!"
Angelina shot George a withering look, then turned back to Sherlock, a note of helplessness creeping into her voice.
"You're right. Vicky Frobisher and Geoffrey Hooper's flying tonight really was better than his. But Hooper wouldn't stop complaining from the moment warm-ups started—too windy, robes don't fit right, he even found fault with the grain of the wood on his broom.
And Vicky—her head's full of nothing but her Glamour Club. She actually told me that if training ever clashed with a club meeting, she'd go teach the other girls how to braid hair, no question."
She let out a long sigh, her chest was rising and falling. "Still, I think with enough training he'll catch up—his family's turned out so many good Quidditch players, after all. I just hope he can focus a bit more next time. So, I'm asking you and Harry—help him out, would you?"
The corner of Sherlock's mouth curved into a faint smile, firelight dancing in his eyes. "I already agreed to that a moment ago."
"Me an' all!"
Harry nodded firmly at once, his glasses catching the glow of the fire.
He was glad to help Ron. Of course he was.
Habit is a far stronger force than anyone imagines.
After the crushing pressure of the first week of O.W.L. year, the fifth-years had begun, little by little, to adjust to the mountain of homework and the increasingly packed schedule.
Cho Chang sat by a window in the library, fingers tracing across the pages of A History of Magic, sunlight falling through the stained glass onto her dark hair, haloing it faintly with colour.
Ever since Ron and Ginny had joined the Quidditch team, Harry had finally found time to properly go out with Cho.
The two of them now sat side by side in soft armchairs in the library, Cho was helping him revise his Divination homework.
Her quill glided lightly across the parchment; now and then she'd look up, and when their eyes met, a soft, warm smile would rise in hers.
Under Cho's patient tutoring, Harry's assignments had finally stopped being a mess of scrawled handwriting and tangled logic and he no longer had to rack his brain inventing new ways he was supposedly going to die.
As for Umbridge—the professor who had once tried to rule the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom like her own little kingdom—she had, by now, become thoroughly the school's running joke.
According to the term's teaching plan, four different Defence Against the Dark Arts professors were meant to rotate through the year.
But after her disastrous first lesson, Dumbledore had simply gone with the flow and reassigned her to the first-years.
To be precise: she was only allowed to teach the first-years theory.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts genuinely does need a theoretical foundation, especially for students just starting out with magic," Dumbledore had said to Lupin who held overall responsibility for the subject—when making the decision.
"And since Professor Umbridge is so skilled at theoretical instruction, let her guide the new students properly."
Professor Lupin, naturally, had no objection.
Even so, Umbridge wasn't given full control of the first-year curriculum. Half the lesson time still belonged to Professor Lupin, precisely so that his steady hand could keep the course on track and stop her rigid theorizing from leading the new students astray.
The result was predictable: the first-year witches and wizards quickly found themselves torn between loving and hating Defence Against the Dark Arts.
They loved it because Professor Lupin introduced them to all sorts of magical creatures and taught them how to handle each one.
They hated it because in Umbridge's lessons, all they could do was copy dull notes from a textbook—wands weren't even allowed out of their bags.
As for Dumbledore, the one responsible for the whole arrangement, the first-years grumbled about him plenty behind his back—though he took it all with remarkable good humour.
Once, over breakfast in the Great Hall, mug of mead in hand, he'd joked to Professor McGonagall, who'd brought the matter up: "Better the first-years suffer a bit than nobody learns anything at all—I'll take the blame."
"Sherlock, what do you think?"
In Herbology, while Professor Sprout was busy questioning other students, Hermione leaned over and murmured to Sherlock.
"He's not wrong. Theory isn't entirely useless—especially when you're just starting out."
Sherlock flipped through the textbook in his hands without looking up. "Of course, theory alone without practice doesn't work either—which is exactly why I think he's got the balance right.
Only letting Umbridge teach the first-years, while cutting down her hours and letting Lupin steer the overall direction so the whole course doesn't go off the rails—ha!"
The words had barely left his mouth when the pot of Chomping Cabbage in front of him lunged straight at him, its leaf-spines glinting with a cold sheen.
Sherlock's reflexes were lightning-fast; he snapped his wrist back and pulled his hand clear just in time.
The Chomping Cabbage snapped at empty air, then thrashed irritably in its pot, its leaves rustling.
"Personally, I think Mad-Eye's lessons are more interesting."
Ron's voice cut in unexpectedly.
He and Harry had just finished helping Professor Sprout haul a pot of Venomous Tentacula across the greenhouse, their school robe sleeves rolled up to the forearm, faint scratch marks from the plants showing on their skin.
Overhearing the exchange between Sherlock and Hermione, Ron immediately leaned in, eyes bright with excitement. "He's just brilliant!"
Hermione sighed at that, her quill drawing a light underline in her notebook, a trace of worry in her voice. "I have my reservations about that."
Mad-Eye Moody, this year's fourth Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, had gone straight for shock value with the fifth-years from day one.
The exact opposite of Umbridge: the moment class started, he had the whole class put away their copies of Wilbert Slinkhard's Defensive Magical Theory.
Naturally, this got everyone thrilled.
As a general rule, whatever follows "wands away" tends not to be much fun.
Which meant whatever followed "books away" would be exactly the opposite.
And when Moody, in that very first lesson, disarmed Umbridge in front of the entire class with a single Disarming Charm, the little Gryffindor lions were practically ready to pound the tables in delight.
Then Mad-Eye gave everyone a surprise—one that could just as easily be called a shock.
By his reasoning, fifth-years were still too young; before passing their O.W.L.s, they had no business knowing what illegal Dark curses actually looked like.
But given that Voldemort had returned, these were extraordinary times, and extraordinary times called for extraordinary measures—everyone ought to see for themselves.
So, he simply used three spiders to demonstrate the three Unforgivable Curses to the fifth-years, right there in class.
One spider, placed under the Imperius Curse, jerked stiffly around its cage in a grotesque little tap dance, its six legs twisting and lurching.
One spider took a Cruciatus Curse straight on—convulsing all over, its thin legs curling in on themselves, its whole body shaking violently, plainly in agonizing pain.
And the last spider, under a flash of green light, didn't even have time to twitch before it lay stiff and still in its cage—the Killing Curse.
Without question, the lesson left a deep impression on everyone.
Karkaroff's method of openly demonstrating Dark magic had already stirred no small controversy.
But compared to Mad-Eye Moody, this former Death Eater might as well have been an infant.
Naturally, Moody's own jaw-dropping teaching style soon set off an uproar across the school.
In the end, just like Umbridge, he was restricted to only demonstrating the Unforgivable Curses and how to resist them—to students in fifth year and above.
In Transfiguration, the fifth-years' Vanishing Spell practice moved on from snails to rats.
In Potions, both Sherlock and Hermione received an "E."
The other young lions were quick to be outraged on their behalf because, by their performance, the two of them clearly deserved an "O."
But even more shocking than that was the fact that Harry had somehow earned an "A."
It was the lowest passing grade, true, but getting even that much meant he'd at least be able to earn a Potions qualification.
Harry himself, however, was convinced it was only because he'd worn the mask during that lesson.
And it wasn't just Potions. During his private Occlumency lessons with Snape, he'd likewise followed Hermione's advice each time and dutifully worn the mask.
The results were remarkably good.
Watching Harry with the mask on, Snape—for once—didn't so much as sneer at him the way he usually did.
Harry, for his part, was putting everything he had into learning it, and by any measure, he was progressing fast.
Time slipped by quietly beneath the accumulating homework and Quidditch practice, and at last, October arrived.
The first weekend was supposed to be the fifth-years' very first trip to Hogsmeade.
But the notice on the board sent everyone's spirits plummeting.
Because he who must not be named had returned, the Ministry of Magic had tightened security.
For students third year and above, only half of each class would be permitted to go to Hogsmeade.
"Talk about a blanket policy!"
Back in the dormitory, Ron flopped heavily onto his bed and said, indignant, "They can't manage things properly, so all they know how to do is slap on restrictions like this."
"Exactly right, and it doesn't even help."
Harry leaned against the window, watching the yellow leaves drift down outside, and let out a sigh, his voice edged with frustration.
"It's always the same with them—something goes wrong, and all they think about is restricting us, instead of actually solving the problem."
"Isn't that just because they can't solve it?" Neville said weakly.
"…"
Everyone froze for a moment, then burst out laughing all at once.
"So, are you going, then?" Ron asked, once he'd stopped laughing, turning to look at Harry.
Harry looked a little embarrassed. "Er—I already made plans with Cho."
"Fair enough," Ron said, shrugging, then turned to Sherlock. "What about you, Old Sher?"
"I'm not going."
"Excellent! If you're not going, then Hermione definitely won't go either! That way, when we apply, we can just use your two spots—and swap back with you next time—"
"Wait. We?"
Harry's head shot up, his glasses catching the light from the window, and he stared at Ron in surprise. "You and who?"
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