"Lavender Brown, obviously."
It wasn't Ron who answered Harry.
While Ron was still squirming, wearing the look of someone who wanted to say something and didn't want to say it at the same time, Sherlock simply gave the answer for him.
"What?!"
At Sherlock's words, the other three in the dormitory—Harry, Neville, and Dean crowded over at once.
Six eyes locked onto Ron like searchlights, sweeping him from head to toe.
Ron's face went red in an instant, redder, even, than his hair.
He'd only just sat up in bed, and now he might as well have been hit with a Petrifying curse, frozen stiff where he sat.
"Lavender Brown?"
Harry's jaw actually dropped. He repeated the name while pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his green eyes gone round behind the lenses, disbelief written all over them. "Really? You and Lavender? You—"
"Whoa!"
Dean let out a whistle, a sly grin spread across his face. "No wonder she was so worried about your hand that day in Care of Magical Creatures!"
Neville looked as though something had just clicked into place, then rubbed the back of his neck, a little embarrassed. "Er—congratulations? I mean, she's pretty lively."
"Shut up—you don't—you don't understand anything!"
Ron shot up off the bed like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, his voice was climbing high and fast with sheer mortification. "Sherlock! You—you sneaky little Legilimens!
How could you—how could you just say it like that!
I only—I only think she's decent, that's all!
And—and so what if we're going to Hogsmeade together?
Friends can go together, can't they?!"
The more he talked, the more worked up he got, his hands were curling into fists at his sides, knuckles went pale.
"My dear Ron, you know perfectly well I haven't used Legilimency on you."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his voice as calm as the Black Lake at this time of year. "I never said you couldn't go with her, either.
I was merely stating a fact—that she's your companion for this particular trip to Hogsmeade."
Damn it.
It was as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over Ron's head; the heat of the moment drained out of him at once.
Because it was true all Sherlock had actually said was that Lavender was his chosen companion. Not a single word about "together," or "fancying her," or "a date." Nothing like that at all.
It was Harry and the others jeering, their probing looks, that had made him overreact and give the game away himself.
Dean caught on to what Ron was thinking in an instant. He sidled up next to Sherlock, immediately hungry for the details. "So—how did you know? You can't just be guessing."
"I never guess, Dean."
Sherlock tilted his head toward Ron, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "The deduction was quite simple, really.
First as Dean just mentioned in Care of Magical Creatures, Lavender took it upon herself to tend to your injury, and even used a personal item of hers to do it: a handkerchief.
Second, in the Herbology lesson that followed, she attempted to partner with you for at least five separate exercises.
Third, over these past weeks, in the study area of the common room, she's chosen a seat next to yours more than three times as often as any other seat.
Not only that, she's taken to speaking to you under the pretence of helping you and Harry finish homework with increasing frequency. And once Harry secured Cho's attention, she stopped bothering to hide it at all, and set her sights directly on you instead."
Sherlock paused, watching Ron's face grow steadily redder, and continued. "And then there's the night you made the Quidditch team as Keeper—she could hardly tear her eyes away from our dear Keeper the entire evening.
And lastly, Ron, just yesterday, you—"
"Stop! Stop! Stop!"
Ron clapped both hands over his ears, cutting Sherlock off in something close to despair.
Right now, he'd have given anything to find a hole to crawl into.
"Don't say another word! I'm begging you!
Merlin's beard!
Galloping Gorgons!
Gulping gargoyles!
I admit it! I admit it, all right?!
She's the one who asked me to go for a drink with her in Hogsmeade—
And I—er—I said yes."
The dormitory erupted into laughter no one could hold back.
Harry laughed so hard he had to slap the bedpost for support. Dean doubled over completely. Even Neville couldn't help giggling.
Well—what could you expect? For teenage boys, there's nothing quite as effective as a friend's embarrassment.
"There we go. You finally admit it!"
Dean had just about managed to stop laughing, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes.
"With a great detective like this one in the room, is there really any point pretending otherwise?"
Ron gave a cold snort, glaring daggers at Sherlock though the embarrassment had mostly drained out of his voice.
He raked a hand through his messy red hair, grumbling.
"Come off it, Ron, it's not something to be ashamed of," Dean said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I only wish a girl would chase me around with potions ingredients and borrowed notes every day!"
"Dean's right," Neville put in quietly. "Lavender—she's—well—she's nice."
"So, you're planning to ask her out properly in Hogsmeade, then? Nicely done, mate!"
"Shut up, Harry!"
Ron, thoroughly humiliated, grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him but the flush on his cheeks and the corner of his mouth twitching up gave away exactly how he really felt. "What's there to make such a fuss about! You think everyone's like you, sorting things out with Cho ages ago?"
At the mention of Cho Chang, Harry's teasing expression vanished at once, a faint blush was rising on his own face, though there was a happiness in his eyes he couldn't quite hide. "Ahem—right, moving on.
Since Sherlock and Hermione aren't going this time, that frees up a spot for Ron and—well, Lavender.
We'll rotate it next time.
Neville, Dean—what about you two? Who's going this round?"
Neville looked a little uncertain. "I—I'd like to go to Honeydukes and get some sweets to send my gran but, I haven't quite decided."
Looking at how cautious he seemed, it was obvious that if anyone offered to trade places with him, he'd say yes on the spot.
"I'm going," Dean shrugged. "Seamus already sorted it out with me."
While the rest of the dormitory carried on arguing over how to divide up the Hogsmeade slots, Sherlock had drifted over to the window on his own.
His gaze swept, seemingly at random, across the gloomy sky outside—rey clouds pressing low over the castle spires, a few owls beating their wings hard against the wind, and the edge of the Forbidden Forest wrapped in a haze of grey mist in the distance.
Umbridge, sidelined from the core upper-year curriculum for the time being and gone quiet; the Malfoy family's tattering nerves under the weight of Voldemort's growing pressure; Voldemort himself, currently lying low; the whereabouts of the remaining Horcruxes; the fragment of Voldemort's soul lodged inside Harry —
Every piece of information connected to any of it—even the smallest fragment of memory, an offhand remark someone let slip, an unremarkable line buried in the newspaper, Sherlock sorted and turned away with care, setting each one neatly inside his Mind Palace, like books lined up on a shelf, ready to be pulled down the moment they were needed.
A calm this quiet usually meant a storm was building somewhere just out of sight.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, his fingertips tapping lightly against the cold windowpane—tap, tap.
And yet—He lifted his head, the corner of his mouth curving up, unmistakably, a flicker of excitement was flashing in his eyes.
This was exactly what made it interesting.
The pleasure of solving a puzzle had never come from the puzzle itself, but from the process of clearing away the fog around it.
Ever since Voldemort had reappeared, his life had finally become interesting again.
The first weekend of October arrived soon.
The news that only half the students would be allowed to make the trip to Hogsmeade had doused the fifth years' enthusiasm like a bucket of cold water, but in the end the allocation of spots went smoothly enough—there was no great free-for-all of students throwing punches to fight over who got to go.
It was the third years, permitted to go for the first time, who fought hardest over their spots, though things eventually settled down once each House's prefects stepped in to smooth things over.
Among Gryffindor's fifth years, Sherlock and Hermione stepping aside voluntarily meant Ron and Lavender Brown were spared the trouble of competing with anyone else, and they secured their spots without any fuss.
As for Harry, he would finally get to enjoy his first proper date with Cho Chang since the term began.
Hogsmeade lay wrapped in the light mist of an October chill, delicate frost gathering along the edges of rooftops and streets.
The syrupy-sweet fragrance inside Honeydukes was thick enough to feel almost solid; the sugary scent of the fizzing whizzbees was especially tempting in the cold air.
Ron's face was still as red as his hair, and Lavender's bright laughter rang out like a wind chime, rising and falling over the foam of their Butterbeers in the Three Broomsticks.
It was only then that Ron found himself struck, with some surprise, by just how good-looking Lavender actually was.
She'd worn an apricot-coloured jumper that day, a small daisy brooch pinned at the collar. When she laughed, her eyes crinkled showing a faint hint of two small dimpled teeth.
When she spoke, she'd twist the hem of her jumper without quite realizing she was doing it, and when she mentioned the fireworks she liked, her eyes lit up as though she had stars tucked away inside them.
Of course, she couldn't quite match the Patil twins, the most eye-catching girls in the entire year, nor could she match Cho Chang and the older girls.
But held up against Ginny who was popular in her own right—she didn't come off badly at all.
Even though Ginny always had no shortage of boys hovering around her, Ron had never once thought his own sister was particularly pretty.
Ron stole a glance at Lavender, who was chatting with the shopkeeper a short distance away, and felt the tips of his ears grow warm all over again.
He found, to his own surprise, that he could actually remember the exact way Lavender looked when she laughed that he found himself waiting to hear what she'd say next. This unfamiliar little flutter crackled inside his chest like the popping candy from Zonko's Joke Shop.
The two of them squeezed into the crowd at Zonko's Wizarding Joke Shop, grinning helplessly at a Fillibuster firework refusing to catch.
Clumsy attempts at conversation, the occasional brush of fingers—the whole afternoon seemed to carry the faint, green sweetness of first attraction in the air.
For Ron, it really was a wonderful weekend.
Even the faint scar left on the back of his hand seemed to have become a kind of badge, announcing something to everyone he met.
In another corner of the Three Broomsticks by the window, the firelight fell across Harry and Cho Chang.
Compared to Ron and Lavender's stiff shyness, the two of them already officially together were naturally far more at ease with each other.
The Butterbeer's warmth chased off the chill, and a few strands of Cho's long black hair had slipped loose over her shoulder.
Encouraged by the look in her eyes, Harry reached over, a little clumsily, and tucked it back behind her ear.
His fingertips brushed the cool curve of her ear by accident; they both paused for half a second, then caught each other's eye and smiled.
They had more in common to talk about:
From the crushing pressure of the O.W.L.s, to Gryffindor's new Keeper (Harry tactfully glossed over just how nervous Ron had looked), to the little goings-on of their respective Houses.
Cho described the particular hush of Ravenclaw Tower at night, and the atmosphere of debating some deep, thorny riddle.
Harry, in turn, painted a picture of the roaring, fire-bright chaos of the Gryffindor common room, and the Weasley twins' endless stream of pranks.
When Harry began to talk about the fear he'd felt facing the Dementors, and the courage it had taken to face Voldemort at the end of the Triwizard Tournament the year before, something shifted in the way Cho looked at him.
She reached over and took his hand gently where it rested on the table, her fingers cool but steady with quiet strength.
"You're so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, Harry."
Her voice was soft, but it flowed through him like warmth spreading through his chest.
They shared a treacle tart from Honeydukes between them, sugary icing clinging to the corners of their mouths.
Cho laughed and brushed it away from his lips with a fingertip and in that fleeting moment of closeness and tenderness, the weight of schoolwork and the shadow of the Horcruxes both fell away, if only for a while.
Two young hearts drew closer and closer together, in an afternoon steeped in the scent of hops and powdered sugar.
Every breath carried a trace of the other's presence, this was their own, singular first love.
While their friends were off enjoying their own perfect afternoons in Hogsmeade, Sherlock and Hermione were absorbed in a world entirely their own.
At a desk near the edge of the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library, heavy tomes were stacked high enough to nearly hide them both from view.
Parchment covered the tabletop, dense with notes on the legend of the Hufflepuff cup, the possible lost relic of Ravenclaw, and information connecting serpentine magical creatures to the Dark Arts.
The air smelled of old parchment dust, the faint tang of ink, and the distinctive scent of a Strengthening Solution.
"I've found a few records concerning Ravenclaw's lost heirloom."
Hermione's brow furrowed as her quill circled a hazy line of description. "Some legends point to a piece of headwear symbolizing wisdom, but the descriptions of its form are extremely vague—even contradictory with one another—
There's even a rumour that it isn't a physical object at all, but a kind of pure knowledge imprinted somehow—"
She said it a little uncertainly.
After all, it had only ever been legend to begin with—vague and insubstantial was hardly unusual.
Sherlock's gaze passed over a line of obscure description concerning ancient serpent-worship rituals.
He was just about to say something in response to Hermione when the sound of footsteps made him fall silent at once.
A moment later, thin, elderly, and hawk-like in appearance, the Hogwarts librarian Irma Pince appeared before the two of them.
"Professor Dumbledore wants you, Sherlock." Her expression showed she wasn't especially pleased to be the one delivering this message. "If you have the time, go to his office."
With that, without waiting for Sherlock to answer, she turned and walked away.
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