"You gave all one thousand Galleons of that prize money—to them?"
Ron spun to stare at Sherlock, clearly blindsided by the news.
To be fair, it was a thousand Gold Galleons. When the Weasley family had won the top prize in the Daily Prophet draw, they'd only taken home seven hundred.
That windfall had sent the whole family to Egypt—and it was during that trip that Sirius still locked away in Azkaban, had spotted Peter Pettigrew disguised as the rat Scabbers. Everything that followed had sprung from that single moment, and it remained one of Ron's most 'treasured' memories to recount.
Hermione's reaction was more restrained, but no less surprised. Her gaze moved back and forth between Sherlock and Harry; this was evidently the first she'd heard of it.
"Strictly speaking, it was an investment," Sherlock said, lifting his pumpkin juice and taking a sip. "Harry believes their business concept has real market potential."
He paused. "As do I."
"Oh," said Hermione, her finger was tapping absently at the tablecloth, a faint crease of worry appeared on her forehead. "But you know how risky their experiments can be. Those Skiving Snackboxes—some of them make your nosebleed nonstop, and the Canary Creams turn you into an actual ball of feathers—"
"Oi! Those are called Nosebleed Nougats," Fred protested immediately.
George helpfully produced one from his pocket. "One bite and the blood just keeps coming. Eventually you sort of… collapse in on yourself."
"Regrettably, we haven't worked out the antidote yet," Fred added, spreading his hands with an expression totally devoid of remorse.
"Which is why they're very reasonably priced," George said.
Hermione glared at the twins looking thoroughly unamused. Fred and George, entirely unintimidated, burst out laughing and bumped shoulders.
"You'll come round soon enough, Hermione," Fred said, stuffing the jam-filled toast he'd been gesturing with into his mouth. "You're fifth-years now. You'll be begging us for Skiving Snackboxes before long."
Hermione frowned. "Why would being in fifth year mean I'd need Skiving Snackboxes?"
"Because fifth year is O.W.L. year," George said, drawing out the syllables with deliberate drama.
"So?" Hermione raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced that this was sufficient reason for any compromise on her part.
"So, you'll be buried under tests with no end in sight—like a grinding wheel working away at your nose until it rubs clean through." Fred said it with relish.
"Half our year developed some kind of ailment during O.W.L.s," George chimed in cheerfully. "Crying fits, temper tantrums—I remember Patricia Stimpson fainting every five minutes—"
"And Kenneth Towler, breaking out head to toe in boils," Fred recalled.
"That's because you put Bulbadox powder in his pyjamas," George said, shooting him a sideways look.
"Did I?" Fred said, with a flash of mischief in his eyes and an unrepentant grin. "It all gets a bit hazy, doesn't it?"
"The point is," George concluded, "fifth year is absolutely nightmarish—if you care about your marks, that is. Fortunately, Fred and I kept our spirits up."
"Because we've always felt our future lay outside academic achievement," Fred said breezily.
"We've had very serious discussions about whether to come back for seventh year at all," George continued, voice rising with enthusiasm. "Now that we've got start-up capital, does it really matter if we have N.E.W.T.s?"
He caught himself. "Pity Mum would never let us leave early."
By now, Hermione and Ron had more or less made their peace with the fact that Sherlock and Harry had backed the twins. Hermione arched an eyebrow and chose her next words carefully.
"Even if your disclaimers are clearly written—if someone were actually hurt, then as investors, Sherlock and Harry would be…"
She turned the phrase over, and ultimately left it unfinished rather than say accomplices aloud. But her concern was plain to see.
"Voluntary assumption of risk in exchange for reward is a fair transaction by any measure," Sherlock said mildly.
"Besides—" his voice took on a dry edge, "—compared to a Ministry that still employs Dementors from Azkaban, their products are practically a health supplement."
Ron choked violently on whatever he'd been drinking. Harry thumped him on the back.
The twins howled with laughter.
"What's got into little Weasley?"
A tall, dark-skinned girl with long braids strode up to their group.
"Morning, Angelina," Fred said, pulling himself together.
"Morning, Captain," George said cheerfully, giving a ridiculous mock-salute.
"Captain?"
Everyone who wasn't Harry, Hermione, or Ron looked up in surprise. They clearly hadn't caught the reference.
"I take it you haven't heard yet—I've been made Gryffindor Quidditch captain."
Angelina stood a little straighter, barely concealing the pride in her voice, eyes bright with excitement.
The penny dropped for all three of them at once. Harry was the first to speak, and he meant it genuinely: "That's brilliant!"
He had a feeling Angelina wouldn't give quite the same endless pre-match speeches Oliver Wood had. That alone was cause for celebration.
Angelina turned to Sherlock, a hopeful look on her face. "Holmes, are you sure you won't join the Gryffindor team? Oliver always said that with your skill level, if you'd only agree to play, our offense and defence would both be—"
"Absolutely unbreakable!" Fred finished for her.
"He's only said it about eight hundred times," George said, shrugging.
"No, thank you. I'm not interested."
Sherlock declined without a moment's hesitation. Angelina didn't look surprised in the slightest. She smiled and moved on.
"Fair enough. But with Oliver gone, we need a new Keeper. Trials will be held Friday at five in the afternoon—I'd like all current team members there, if that's all right? It'll help us see whether the new recruit can find their footing with the rest of us."
Her gaze swept from Sherlock to Harry and then to the twins. Once she'd gotten their affirmatives, she walked away with confidence looking, quite pleased with herself.
The moment she was out of range, Harry turned to Ron.
"Start practising, Ron. I have every confidence you'll make it this Friday."
"Me too!"
Ginny dropped into the seat beside Harry, dragged a plate of toast toward herself, and announced, "I'm trying out for Gryffindor as well!"
She looked at Harry with an expression of hope.
Harry caught on immediately and nodded. "Absolutely. I'm sure you'll do brilliantly."
Ginny broke into a wide, delighted smile.
Hermione suppressed a quiet sigh.
'Silly girl.'
But then—this suits her, doesn't it.
The thought softened her. She turned to look at Sherlock, her gaze going warm.
Later, during the remainder of breakfast, Hermione found her moment to suggest to Neville and Parvati that the twins really shouldn't be allowed to put up their advertisements in the common room.
Parvati was initially fascinated, eyes bright, listening intently to Hermione's reasoning.
But after a brief exchange with Fred and George, she appeared to have been fully persuaded to the other side.
As for Neville—his sullen expression said it all. Getting in the way of Fred and George doing what they liked was not a job he envied anyone.
Hermione exhaled. She had the will, but not the means.
If only I were a prefect.
"Harry, mate, you have to promise me—come to Divination with me!" Ron grabbed Harry's arm out of nowhere.
Harry startled. "What's got into you?"
"Look at today's schedule." Ron thrust his timetable at Harry. "Two lessons of History of Magic, two of Potions, two of Divination, two of Defence Against the Dark Arts—it's an absolute monster of a day.
If you don't come with me to Divination, I won't survive long enough to reach Defence. And what if that Umbridge woman is teaching it?"
He shuddered. "I can't even think about that pink cardigan without my skin crawling."
"Well…"
Harry scratched the back of his head. It had to be said—of all his subjects, Divination ranked just below Potions in his estimation.
The problem was largely Professor Trelawney's habit of prophesying his imminent death every few lessons, always with such vivid, shuddering detail that it left an unpleasant residue long after class.
That said, he noticed things were somehow more bearable whenever Sherlock was in the room. Something about Sherlock's presence seemed to make the Professor rein herself in a little.
Harry's eyes drifted toward Sherlock.
"Divination and Arithmancy clash again," Hermione said at the same moment, glancing down at her own timetable with a small sigh. She looked at Sherlock, her voice carrying just the faintest note of hope. "Sherlock, would you like to—"
"I'll take Arithmancy with you."
Hermione's eyes lit up instantly, as if someone had switched on a lamp behind them. The corners of her mouth curved up before she could help it, and the joy in her expression was obvious.
"Can't believe Sherlock's gone and done it too," Ron muttered, aggrieved, mouthing at Harry across the table: Harry we are mates, we have to help each other in need.
Harry: …
History of Magic had long held the distinction of being the most tedious subject in the wizarding curriculum.
A ghost teaching. Literally endless droning.
Their ghost professor, Mr. Binns, wheezed and drawled in an unbroken monotone that carried a near-supernatural soporific effect nearly guaranteed to reduce any student to a stupor within ten minutes. In warm weather, five would suffice.
His teaching method never varied: he talked, they took notes. Or more precisely, they stared into the middle distance with glazed eyes.
The sole exception had been second year, when Hermione raised her hand and asked Mr. Binns directly about the Chamber of Secrets. For that one lesson, the whole class had sat up straighter than they ever had before or since. That was how they'd first learned the legend of the Chamber.
Mr. Binns had insisted it was nothing more than myth, not reliable history. And yet—events had proved that even folklore has its origins somewhere.
Why the Slytherin line had chosen to preserve that particular story was another matter.
Whatever the case, by now the entire class seemed to contain exactly two students capable of resisting Mr. Binns's voice as a sedative.
The first was, naturally, Hermione Granger—four-time and reigning top-scorer, spine straight as a lance, quill flying across parchment as though she were afraid of missing a single syllable. Every so often she'd frown and mark something with an asterisk.
The second was Sherlock Holmes.
He was leaned back in his chair, relaxed to the point of apparent indolence, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. No one could say what he was thinking about. But he showed absolutely no sign of falling asleep.
The one thing they had in common: both would produce exam scores at the end of term that left everyone else in the dust.
After an hour and a half that felt considerably longer, Mr. Binns drifted through the blackboard and vanished.
"What would happen," Hermione said, closing her notebook and turning to look at Harry and Ron with coolness, "if I decided not to lend you my notes this year?"
Her displeasure was warranted. For the past ninety minutes, the two of them had been playing Hangman under the desk, their parchment covered in wobbly lines and letters, their actual notes entirely blank.
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. The lightness drained from both their faces.
This was not a trivial matter. History of Magic was a subject they scraped through by borrowing Hermione's detailed and meticulous notes to cram from the night before every exam.
As for Sherlock—well. He had stopped taking notes sometime after first year, and never seemed to need them. This did not prevent him from receiving top marks.
"We'd fail our History of Magic O.W.L.," Ron said quickly.
Harry backed him up: "And surely you don't want that on your conscience, Hermione?"
"If you fail, why would my conscience suffer?" Hermione said flatly. "You've no one to blame but yourselves—you didn't listen to a word he said, did you?" She turned to Sherlock for confirmation.
And in doing so, her whole manner changed. Her voice softened, her expression opened, and there was something almost gently teasing in the look she gave him.
"Did they, Sherlock?"
"No," Sherlock said.
"The favouritism could not be more obvious," Ron muttered under his breath, shaking his head mournfully at Harry. Both of them. Choosing their other half over their mates.
Harry: …
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