Everyone's face wore a look of confusion—everyone except Sherlock, and Ginny, who was the one holding out the scrolls to Sherlock and Harry. "What is it?"
Ron watched, baffled, as Harry took the scroll with his name written on it, his fingers pinching the soft parchment, curious and impatient all at once. "I just ran into Zacharias Smith in the corridor."
Ginny sat down. At the mention of the name, the corner of her mouth twitched, a flash of distaste crossing her eyes.
"That Hufflepuff idiot wouldn't stop pestering me, going on and on until I couldn't stand it.
"So, I hexed him and wouldn't you know it, a professor saw."
She added, her voice dropping a little, a trace of belated alarm in her eyes.
"A teacher?" Ron looked utterly lost. "There's a professor on this train?"
"My dear Ron, I believe you've forgotten Professor Lupin."
Prompted by Sherlock, Ron immediately caught on.
In their third year, Professor Remus Lupin had ridden this very train with them on the way to Hogwarts.
That had been the first time they'd ever laid eyes on a dementor.
Looking back now, it was hard to believe that had already been three years ago.
Even as he reminded Ron, Sherlock had already unrolled his own scroll. He gave a soft laugh. "An invitation."
Dear Sherlock,
I would be delighted if you would join me for lunch in compartment C.
Yours faithfully,Professor H. E. F. Slughorn
At a glance, Sherlock smiled faintly with a flicker of understanding in his eyes.
"Very much in keeping with his style."
"Wait Slughorn? Professor?"
Harry had just finished reading the scroll with his own name on it.
Aside from the name, the contents were identical to Sherlock's.
Of course, he knew Horace E. F. Slughorn.
Dumbledore had once taken Sherlock and him along to visit the old professor's home.
It was that very visit that had yielded a crucial memory.
And it was that memory which had let them truly confirm the existence of Horcruxes, setting them on the path to finding and destroying them. It hadn't actually been very long since then and yet, looking back, it felt like another lifetime.
But—but what did any of that have to do with him becoming a professor?
Hogwarts didn't need a new teacher right now!
"Hogwarts doesn't need a new teacher, that's true. But you do, my dear Harry."
Once again, Sherlock spoke Harry's own thoughts before Harry could voice them.
"I need one? Sherlock, what are you talking about?"
Harry found that he understood every single word Sherlock said, but strung together, they made no sense to him at all.
It wasn't only Harry,everyone else was looking at Sherlock with the same blank confusion, unsure what he meant.
Seeing this, Sherlock gave the compartment a look that plainly said how do none of you understand this, sighed, and said.
"My dear Harry, what mark did you get on your Potions O.W.L.?"
"Exceeds Expectations. Why?"
Harry was even more confused now. What did this have to do with Potions?
"By Professor Snape's own requirement, only students who earn an Outstanding on the O.W.L. may go on to take his N.E.W.T.-level class."
Sherlock said this slowly with teasing in his voice.
"Right, so I can't take Potions anymore. Good riddance," Harry said. "I never wanted to sit through his lessons again anyway."
"Is that really true?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he looked at Harry, that sharp gaze of his seeming to see straight through him.
"..."
Harry found himself at a loss, not sure what to say.
"To become an Auror, you must take Potions at N.E.W.T. level, and do well in it." Sherlock said this quietly. "Near the end of last term, I told Dumbledore as much."
"Sherlock, are you saying—"
Harry felt his breath grow ragged, his heart was pounding hard enough to leap from his chest.
He stared at Sherlock, full of anticipation.
If he was honest, when he'd first seen his O.W.L. results, he'd felt both pleased and troubled.
Pleased, because he'd done far better than he'd expected.
He'd dropped Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, sitting ten subjects in all, and had failed only Divination. Every other subject he'd passed with at least an Acceptable.
Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, and Potions—the subjects taught by the four Heads of House, he'd earned Exceeds Expectations in all of them, and in Defence Against the Dark Arts he'd even managed an Outstanding. The trouble was that his Potions mark was only Exceeds Expectations which, in fact, wasn't a bad mark at all.
But because of Professor Snape's requirement, his dream of becoming an Auror had been shattered.
The reason he wanted to become an Auror was, naturally, Sherlock, above all else.
Because Sherlock needed him to.
The other reason had to do with the prophecy.
Since the two of them could not both live, if he joined that resourceful band of wizards whose duty was to hunt down and destroy Voldemort, wouldn't that give him the best possible chance of fulfilling the prophecy and surviving?
So, the moment he'd seen his results, Harry hadn't shared his true feelings with anyone.
He certainly hadn't told anyone that, again and again, he'd stared at that small black letter "E" after his Potions grade. Each time, he couldn't help but gently trace it with his finger, wishing it would somehow turn into an "O."
But now, from the sound of it, could this actually be about to change?
"That's right."
Sherlock smiled faintly.
"Since our Potions professor, Snape, will only teach students who earned Outstanding on their O.W.L., then why not simply find someone else to teach Potions?"
"What?"
Everyone stared at Sherlock in open shock, disbelief across every face.
There was such a thing as doing that?
Ron actually rubbed his eyes without thinking, certain he must have misheard.
"No need to doubt it. The moment that professor stepped onto this train, I understood exactly what Dumbledore had in mind." Sherlock's tone was certain, his fingertips were tapping lightly against the table.
"Ah, so that's it!"
Ginny's eyes lit up at once. She clapped her hands, as if everything had suddenly clicked into place.
"Come to think of it when he first saw me casting that hex, I thought for sure he was going to give me detention!
Instead, he said it was a beautifully cast hex, praised how precise and forceful my spellwork was, and invited me to lunch.
I thought he must be here to teach us Defence Against the Dark Arts, after all, Professor Lupin still hasn't come back, has he?"
Sherlock nodded, fingertips still tapping lightly against the table.
"Under ordinary circumstances, your reasoning would hold up perfectly well—you've simply failed to identify the principal contradiction."
"What's the principal contradiction?"
Ginny asked, puzzled, brow furrowing, her eyes full of confusion.
"The principal contradiction is exactly what I just said: Harry can no longer take Potions. On the whole, bringing in a different teacher for Potions is far easier for people to accept than getting Snape to change his own standards."
"That's all well and good, but if Snape's not teaching Potions, what's he going to do instead?"
The moment Ron finished asking this question, he found everyone looking at him with expressions that said more than words could.
Hermione shook her head helplessly. Harry let out a sigh. Cho Chang pressed her lips together to hold back a laugh. Luna remained as detached as ever, as though none of it concerned her.
"What? Is something wrong?"
Ron rubbed his nose, looking utterly innocent.
"Nothing's wrong."
Harry sighed and turned to Sherlock. "Should we go?"
"Obviously, my friend."
Sherlock said with a smile, "It would hardly be gentlemanly to rashly refuse a professor's kindly-meant invitation.
"Besides, this gives you the chance to test my deduction if I'm right, we won't be the only three he's invited."
There was nothing more to say after that.
For Sherlock, this marked the first time he had ever eaten lunch aboard the Hogwarts Express without ordering from the trolley.
By the time the three of them reached compartment C, they found, to their astonishment, that it was already packed with students just as Sherlock had predicted. A white cloth had been laid across the compartment's table, set with an array of fine dishes and elegant tableware.
Judging by the warmth of Slughorn's welcome, however, it was clear that Harry Potter and Sherlock Holmes were, without question, the two guests he had most been hoping to see.
Of the two, it was Harry above all and plainly, this was because of Lily.
Even more than ten years after her death, her influence was still felt everywhere.
"Ah, Harry, my boy, you've finally arrived!"
The instant Slughorn caught sight of Harry, he leapt straight to his feet.
His round, portly body swayed with the motion, nearly knocking into the table.
His velvet robes—a rich burgundy embroidered with golden patterns stretched over his great belly, filling nearly all the remaining space in the compartment.
This was, of course, something of an exaggeration.
But his shock of silvery-white beard and the gold buttons on his waistcoat truly did gleam brilliantly in the sunlight, the beard hanging all the way down to his chest, swaying gently with his every movement.
"So wonderful to see you—ah, and Sherlock and Miss Weasley have come along too, how splendid!"
Slughorn gestured for the three of them, and they took the only three empty seats left, nearest the door, sitting down facing him.
It was only then that Harry, to his surprise, spotted Neville sitting just behind Slughorn.
He had his head bowed, fingers nervously picking at the armrest of his seat.
The moment he saw Harry and the others come in, he lifted his head at once, looking at them with an expression of pure relief.
His eyes were full of the look of someone who had just found their salvation.
Clearly, Neville was overjoyed to find a few friends in a gathering like this.
Sherlock, of course, saw a great deal more than Harry did.
In the span of three seconds, he had run through every guest Slughorn had invited, and as his eyes swept quickly across each face, he had simultaneously worked out the reason each of them had been asked along.
[Cormac McLaggen, Gryffindor. Dressed in immaculately pressed robes, arrogant look in his eyes. Uncle is a senior Ministry official.]
[Blaise Zabini, Slytherin. Hair combed without a single strand out of place, a faint, knowing smile at the corner of his mouth. Mother is a beautiful witch who has been married seven times; family is wealthy.]
[Marcus Belby. Robes somewhat worn, a hint of timidity in his eyes. Uncle is Damocles Belby, the wizard who invented the Wolfsbane Potion; complicated family relations.]
[Neville Longbottom. Hands resting on his knees, looking somewhat ill at ease. Parents were renowned Aurors, who made an indelible contribution during the wizarding war.]
There was no question about it—every single person Slughorn had invited was here because of some connection, by blood or by acquaintance, to someone of influence.
Every one of them, that is, except the three who had arrived last.
Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter—these two names alone already carried more than enough weight in the wizarding world as it was. Harry Potter's, especially.
That name had carried this particular weight from the very moment he was born.
And since Voldemort's return, he had gone from being "the Wizarding World's Chosen One" to "the Saviour."
And then there was Ginny Weasley.
She had been invited on the strength of that spectacular Bat-Bogey Hex of hers.
Sherlock had seen it cast once before when that spell went off, the swarm of bats it produced had been, to put it plainly, devastating.
Judging by this, then, Slughorn evidently didn't value background alone he valued ability just as much.
That was the true, practical face of Slytherin.
"Now then. I've asked you all here today for the chance to get to know each of you a little better.
"Go on, everyone, take a napkin.
"I've brought my own lunch — the trolley food always tastes far too strongly of aniseed for my liking, and a poor old man's digestion simply can't cope with that sort of thing anymore..."
As he spoke, he opened the lunch box beside him.
Inside was a spread of exquisite food roast chicken, sandwiches, fruit tarts, and a bottle of some sparkling golden drink, its fragrance filling the compartment at once.
What seemed, on the surface, like a great deal of idle chatter turned out, in Sherlock's hands, to yield a wealth of information.
And everything that followed only confirmed his deduction once more.
Slughorn proceeded to "interrogate" each of them in turn, spending some ten minutes on each, and always drawing out their family background in particular.
The questions came one after another, rapid-fire, his sharp eyes tracking every reaction with care.
Then, just as abruptly, he would wander off into some rambling reminiscence, his pace slowing, taking on the leisurely air peculiar to old age. All afternoon, the professor held forth on stories and anecdotes about the brilliant wizards he'd taught over the years.
His voice rose and fell, now booming, now soft, accompanied all the while by an assortment of theatrical gestures.
And he made a particular point of noting that these wizards had, in their time at Hogwarts, all belonged to what he called the Slug Club.
"Isn't it called the Slughorn Club?" Harry whispered to Sherlock beside him, his lips barely moving, terrified of being overheard by Slughorn.
"Evidently, Professor Dumbledore chose a rather more elegant turn of phrase."
Sherlock murmured back, the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
This old fellow, it seemed, was rather more entertaining than expected.
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