"If it were just to see me, you would have sent me a letter by owl directly, or you would have said so right there in the Great Hall, rather than coming here."
Hearing Gemma ask why, Sherlock answered without hesitation.
"Well, you saw right through me as usual," Gemma sighed, then gave Sherlock a meaningful look. "I'm here about Draco Malfoy..."
After saying this, she quietly added to herself. But not only for that brat.
"Miss Farley, I think you should be well aware that compared to Marcus Flint, his relationship with Harry is far worse."
"Of course I know that." Gemma smiled slightly, her finger tracing along the rim of the glass. "But compared to Flint, at least he hasn't actually harmed Mr. Potter. Quite the opposite—he's the one who gets hurt every time!"
Before the start of last year, Crabbe and Goyle had been beaten up by Sherlock in the train compartment. Although Malfoy had escaped that time, he had been quite frightened.
Later, when he tried to trick Harry and Ron into a midnight duel, Sherlock saw through his scheme and the whole school mocked him mercilessly. He couldn't hold his head up for over a month.
Then came the Quidditch match. Malfoy had thought Sherlock wasn't there and taunted Gryffindor extensively, only for Sherlock to suddenly appear and lead the little lions in thoroughly beating the little snakes.
Malfoy bore the brunt of it and spent two or three days recovering in the hospital wing.
Since then, Malfoy had learned his lesson and only dared to provoke with words.
So, when Gemma said this, Sherlock also laughed.
"Alright, I admit you're right."
Seeing that Sherlock was no longer rejecting topics related to Malfoy, Gemma seized the opportunity to continue.
"Draco Malfoy's father bought each member of the Slytherin Quidditch team a Nimbus 2001."
"Nimbus 2001?" Sherlock immediately recalled the shop assistant who had tried to sell them flying broomsticks when he and Hermione were in Diagon Alley.
Gemma thought he didn't know about it, so she patiently explained.
"Yes, it's from the same series as your friend Mr. Potter's Nimbus 2000. It's the latest model released just this August, even faster than the previous Nimbus 2000."
Sherlock replied without hesitation, "So Old Malfoy wants his son to join the Quidditch team?"
"Exactly."
"From what I've observed, Little Malfoy's performance in flying class isn't bad—even his actual skill level would be sufficient for the team."
Like last year, this year's Quidditch teams were recruiting again.
Since second-year students could be directly selected as official team members, Malfoy could have taken the normal route to join the team.
"That's exactly the problem," Gemma frowned. "If Draco could join the team through official selection like Potter did, there would be no issue. But joining the team this way, even if he does have the skill, people will inevitably talk and think he bought his way onto the team."
Sherlock scoffed and asked back. "Isn't that exactly what happened?"
"Huh?"
"Draco Malfoy—he did buy his way onto the team."
"But you just said his flying skills were sufficient for the team."
"These two things don't contradict each other, Miss Farley."
Sherlock looked at the prefect who was so worried about Slytherin House.
During the holidays, she had provided him with numerous criminal cases from the wizarding world.
More importantly, unlike other Slytherins, she had been showing him goodwill from the beginning.
Sherlock decided to give her some proper guidance.
"Miss Farley, regardless of Malfoy's actual abilities, from the moment his father bought flying broomsticks for the Slytherin team members, that became irrelevant."
Hearing this, Gemma's eyes suddenly narrowed.
"Sherlock, why don't you make yourself clearer?"
Sherlock chuckled and tapped the desk lightly with his knuckles.
"Miss Farley, since you came to consult me, let me use three logical anchor points to untangle your confused thoughts.
First, Malfoy's flying talent is as real as Mandrake roots—this is something we both know well.
Second, old Malfoy's Galleons are wrapped around those broomstick handles like Devil's Snare tentacles—it's a stench of money that even Mrs. Norris could smell.
Third, when money and talent shine together, the public will always stare at the more glaring light."
At this point, Sherlock picked up the orange juice on the table and pointed to the droplets sliding down the glass.
"See these condensation drops? No matter how you wipe them, people will think it's the Malfoy vault that's frosting over.
So, my advice is. instead of worrying about the moral ice crystals on the broomstick, put your energy into training.
People in this world mostly only care about results, and wizards are no exception.
When Slytherin actually holds up the Quidditch Cup, everyone will shut up."
Seeing Gemma's thoughtful expression, Sherlock added.
"Miss Farley, I think you should remember how you repotted Mandrakes, right?
What does it matter how ugly the process looks? What ultimately goes into the soil is still a plant that can grow.
For the Slytherin team, those Nimbus 2001s are their new pots."
"Sherlock, you..."
Gemma hadn't expected that despite their different positions, Sherlock would still give such sincere advice.
She looked at Sherlock with some emotion, ready to say something heartfelt.
But then Sherlock continued. "However, in my personal opinion, you should give up early."
"Huh?"
Gemma was stunned.
She looked at Sherlock with bewilderment, completely unable to understand how he could change direction so suddenly.
"As long as Harry can perform normally, you're no match for them."
"Pfft~"
Gemma immediately burst out laughing at Sherlock's statement.
"You have that much confidence in your friend?"
"The youngest Seeker in a century, Miss Farley. I don't think one broomstick can bridge the gap between him and Malfoy."
"But that's seven broomsticks!"
"With all due respect, in Quidditch, the Seeker's role is, to some extent, more important than the other six players combined."
"Even so—Sherlock, do you always talk like this?"
Gemma looked at Sherlock somewhat helplessly. "Has anyone ever told you that you're likely to offend people this way?"
"So what?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Life is already hard enough. If I also had to worry about others' opinions, wouldn't that be too exhausting?"
"Forget it..."
Gemma sighed deeply and gracefully tucked a strand of her chestnut hair behind her ear.
"Since things have come to this, let's have a drink!"
As she spoke, her gaze fell directly on the beverages on the table, her eyes showing a hint of throwing caution to the wind.
Sherlock nodded, picked up the orange juice on the table, and drained it in one gulp. The cup made a dull sound as it hit the wooden table.
"It tastes good."
Gemma supported her chin with one hand and looked at Sherlock with interest. "Aren't you worried I might have added something to it?"
"I said before—you're not that kind of person."
Hearing this, Gemma's already bright eyes became even brighter.
The smile on her lips became more obvious, and her whole being seemed to be infused with new vitality. She unconsciously sat up straighter.
Seeing Gemma like this, Sherlock also smiled.
"In fact, rather than a Chimaera, I think Prefect Penelope's description of you is more accurate."
"Penelope? What did she say about me?"
Upon hearing Sherlock mention her old rival, Gemma immediately became interested.
"She said she really dislikes those people with serpentine silver buckles, but you're like a Mooncalf that wandered into a nest of vipers."
A Mooncalf was a magical creature widely distributed around the world. They had light gray, smooth skin, four legs, four flat large feet, and two round big eyes on top of their heads.
They were shy by nature and only emerged from their burrows during full moons.
When bathed in moonlight, they would stand on their hind legs in remote, uninhabited places and perform complex dances that were quite enchanting.
Hearing this comparison, Gemma was first stunned, then burst into laughter, her voice as clear and melodious as a golden oriole.
"That Penelope... she really thought of that! But..."
Her eyes suddenly flashed with a cold light. "Thinking my danger rating is only XX is rather underestimating me!"
Sherlock frowned. He didn't understand how comparing her to a Mooncalf was underestimating her—shouldn't that be a compliment?
"Well, it's about time," Gemma stopped smiling and said quietly. "If we don't leave soon, your friend might really think I'm a dangerous Chimaera. What do you think?"
"I don't care either way."
"..."
When Sherlock and Gemma Farley returned to the Great Hall, the sun had already risen.
Ron was nowhere to be seen, leaving only Hermione in the hall.
When she saw Sherlock and Gemma, the anxiety in Hermione's eyes disappeared, replaced by a look of relief.
Gemma smiled and nodded at Hermione, then turned and left under the latter's still-wary gaze.
Sherlock's gaze swept over the table. "Ron went to the Quidditch pitch?"
"He took bread and jam to find Harry."
After Gemma's figure completely disappeared, Hermione said with a stern face. "You were gone for so long. What did you talk about with her?"
"Just a trivial matter."
Sherlock sat down naturally and picked up a piece of toast. "Could you pass me the apple jam, please? Thank you."
Hermione handed over the apple jam as requested, then fixed her gaze on Sherlock, waiting for him to continue.
"She came to me for consultation again, but this time it was psychological."
"Psychological consultation?"
You can read more than 40 chapters on:
patreon.com/MikeyMuse