"Every teacher has different standards for who gets into their N.E.W.T. classes."
Pale golden sunlight spilled through the high windows of the Transfiguration classroom, falling across the stone walls. Professor McGonagall stood at the lectern, her wand was tapping lightly against the words "O.W.L. Exams" chalked on the blackboard.
She addressed the young witches and wizards sitting straight before her, her voice was clear and crisp as she laid out the importance of the exam.
"At Hogwarts, there are professors who'll accept students who earned Acceptable or higher on their O.W.L.s—but—"
Professor McGonagall let her gaze sweep slowly across the young lions, pausing briefly on every face, until at last it settled on a few students at the back who had begun to drift off.
Only then did she finish, weighting each word: "In your N.E.W.T. Transfiguration class next year, I will accept only students who earn Exceeds Expectations or higher on their O.W.L.s."
At these words, the classroom fell silent at once.
The young lions exchanged glances, more than a few were quietly furrowing their brows.
Sitting beside Harry, Ron's mouth fell open before he could stop it, then snapped shut just as fast.
By now, they all understood well that Professor McGonagall hadn't been exaggerating back in their first year.
Transfiguration truly was one of the most complex and dangerous branches of magic there was.
But for anyone who could really master it, it was also, without question, one of the most powerful.
Still, the bar of "Exceeds Expectations or higher" had everyone gripping their wands a little tighter, a knot of anxiety was tightening in their chests.
Whatever were they to do?
"That said—as long as you score Acceptable or above, you'll still receive a qualification."
Noticing, perhaps, the pained looks on her students' faces, Professor McGonagall followed up enticing: "For most of you, simply holding an O.W.L. qualification in Transfiguration will be more than enough.
And if you don't pass your O.W.L., there's no need to panic—you'll still have the chance to apply for a resit."
As everyone knew, O.W.L. results came in six grades.
"Receiving a qualification" meant earning one of three passing grades: O for Outstanding, E for Exceeds Expectations, or A for Acceptable.
The remaining three—P for Poor, D for Dreadful, and T for Troll—obviously didn't count as passing.
So never mind, for now, whether they'd qualify for N.E.W.T. classes in sixth year—that goal still felt a long way off.
But as Professor McGonagall had just said, simply earning an O.W.L. qualification would do them enormous good for the rest of their lives.
With that, she turned a meaningful look on Neville, who still seemed to be questioning his own existence. "So that includes you too, Mr. Longbottom."
"Me?" Neville pointed at himself looking uncertain. "I can do it too?"
Professor McGonagall nodded. "As it happens, your technique has been perfectly correct all along. You simply lack confidence."
Neville's eyes went wide with disbelief.
This—this was the first time Professor McGonagall had ever said anything good about him!
In that moment, a bright smile spread across his round face.
(≥∇≤*)
Hearing this, the young lions couldn't help but sit up a little straighter, chests puffed with pride.
After all, if even Neville Longbottom could earn a qualification, surely the rest of them could manage it too.
Then again—now that Neville Longbottom had been made a prefect, did that mean he wasn't really so hopeless after all?
At the thought, the young lions did something rare for them: they actually started thinking, and fell into a collective, baffled silence.
Satisfied that everyone now grasped the importance of the O.W.L.s, Professor McGonagall nodded and moved smoothly into the day's lesson. "So—today we begin the Vanishing Spell.
"It's somewhat easier than the Summoning Charm, which you wouldn't normally touch until N.E.W.T. level, but it remains the hardest spell you'll meet on your O.W.L.s."
As ever, Professor McGonagall wasn't exaggerating.
The Vanishing Spell, a branch of Transfiguration, was cast with the incantation Evanesco.
Next to everything they'd learned so far, it was fiendishly difficult—arguably one of the hardest charms to appear on the Ordinary Wizarding Level exams.
As the name suggested, it made the target of the spell disappear completely.
The target could be a living creature or an inanimate object.
But the difficulty of the spell shifted enormously depending on what it was cast on.
The more intricate an object's internal structure, the harder it was to vanish successfully.
For this first lesson, Professor McGonagall had chosen snails for everyone to practice on.
Damp soil still clung to their shells as they slowly extended their tentacles, leaving thin trails of slime across the desks.
As everyone knew, snails were invertebrates—mollusks of the class Gastropoda.
Small and simple in structure, they made an excellent starting point for anyone learning the spell.
According to Professor McGonagall, vanishing one shouldn't be much of a challenge for a fifth-year.
Once the targets shifted to vertebrates and especially to more advanced vertebrates like mammals—the difficulty would multiply many times over.
But!
By the time the double lesson was nearly over, most of the class still hadn't managed to vanish their snails.
Ron stared at the snail still creeping unhurriedly across his desk, beads of sweat was forming at his temples.
He nudged Harry with his elbow and lowered his voice. "Watch closely, Harry!"
"Hm?"
Harry, brow furrowed in concentration as he ran through the spell again and again, glanced over in confusion.
"Doesn't my snail look just a little paler?"
Ron pointed at the shell, a thread of wishful hope rose in his voice, as though finding even the smallest change would prove his efforts hadn't been wasted.
Harry: …
"Well? Is it or isn't it?" Ron pressed, he was anxious now.
Harry looked at the snail, which appeared exactly as it had at the start of class, and was quiet for a few seconds. In the end he couldn't bring himself to crush him.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, it does."
Surveying the class's uneven results, Professor McGonagall stood at the front, brow knit tight, her voice was heavy with disappointment. "You are the worst class I have ever taught!"
Even though everyone privately suspected she'd probably said the very same thing to more than one class before them, when she actually said it aloud, the whole room fell into a cowed silence, heads bowed, no one was daring to make a sound.
But there were, in fact, exceptions.
Two students in the class had truly succeeded—really and properly at the Vanishing Spell.
One was Hermione Granger.
On her third attempt, she made the snail in front of her vanish completely.
Watching this, Professor McGonagall allowed herself a satisfied smile.
The other was Sherlock Holmes.
He nailed it on the very first try—the instant he spoke the incantation, the snail before him vanished without a trace.
"A genius of Transfiguration!"
Professor McGonagall praised him without a moment's hesitation.
"The rest of you might want to ask yourselves—you're all Gryffindors. Why can some of you manage this, and not the rest?"
Because the Vanishing Spell truly was that difficult, even Professor McGonagall usually so sparing with house points turned uncharacteristically generous.
Between them, Sherlock and Hermione earned Gryffindor thirty points.
What's more, out of the whole class, only the two of them were excused from homework.
Everyone else would have to practice the spell late into the night, ready to try it again on their snails the next afternoon.
And so, once again, the young lions found their homework piling up worse than ever.
Harry looked at the list of practice requirements filling his notebook and couldn't help but sigh.
Ron's face fell outright, his stomach was twisting with dread.
"The ones who could finish the homework don't have to do it, and the ones who have to do it can't even manage it—"
Watching Ron mutter on like this, Sherlock let out a soft laugh, his tone teasing. "My dear Ron. It seems you've grasped the unity and conflict of opposites."
"Sherlock, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"My apologies. Given your intelligence, I doubt I could explain it clearly enough."
Stung by Sherlock's merciless jab, Ron let out a sharp, indignant squawk.
For all the good it did him.
In the end, he and Harry had to spend even their lunch hour holed up in the library—without it, there was no way they'd finish so much homework in time.
"Sherlock, shouldn't we go with them?"
"Compared to finishing homework, I find eating lunch the more meaningful use of my time," Sherlock told Hermione. "Besides—however tight things are this term; there's something we still can't afford to forget."
"What's that?"
At his words, Hermione's attention sharpened at once.
"Horcruxes."
Sherlock went on, under her startled gaze. "Aside from Nagini, the snake that never leaves Voldemort's side, we still haven't found either of the two remaining relics—Hufflepuff's and Ravenclaw's.
Ravenclaw's especially. We still don't even know what it is.
Now that Voldemort's back, Dumbledore's attention is bound to be divided. He won't be able to throw everything he has into the hunt the way he once did."
"I understand."
Hermione was sharp as ever; she grasped it at once.
After lunch, Sherlock and Hermione set off together for Hagrid's cabin in the woods.
They walked side by side down the grassy slope behind the castle, the grass was already going yellow and damp with rain, rustling faintly beneath their feet.
Scattered raindrops fell against their faces, carrying the chill of early autumn.
Cold and dreary as the weather was, the wind tugging at the hems of their robes, the moment still left Hermione feeling rather pleased.
After all, chances to be alone with Sherlock at school were rare for her.
Most of the time, Harry and Ron were never far from his side.
A moment like this, with just the two of them, didn't come often.
Then again—now that Harry had started seeing Cho Chang, perhaps she and Sherlock would get more time together going forward.
The thought left Hermione feeling sweet all over, as though she'd swallowed a spoonful of honey.
Just as Sherlock had predicted, Hagrid was nowhere to be seen. Professor Grubbly-Plank stood waiting for the class about ten meters from the cabin door.
In front of her stood a long trestle table scattered with thin twigs.
"Is everyone here?"
Professor Grubbly-Plank glanced around. Like Potions, this class was shared between Gryffindor and Slytherin.
No sooner had she spoken than Harry and Ron came puffing up from not far off.
By the time they took their places behind Sherlock and Hermione, both were still gasping for breath.
"Fell asleep in the library?" Sherlock's eyes flicked over the two of them as he asked, almost offhandedly.
"Y-you—how did you—" Ron caught himself. "Never mind. Forget I asked."
He'd meant to ask how Sherlock knew, but it occurred to him that the answer would only end with him humiliating himself again, so he cut himself off in a hurry.
Professor Grubbly-Plank frowned at the latecomers but let it go, and began asking instead in her usual gruff voice: "Now that everyone's here, let's begin. Can anyone tell me what these are called?"
She gestured at the pile of twigs in front of her.
At the sight of them, Sherlock showed a knowing smile.
He'd already crossed paths with these little creatures once before, on his first night exploring the Forbidden Forest.
They really were rather interesting things—
So, he was thinking, even as he stepped slightly aside, because beside him Hermione had just shot her hand straight up into the air.
Had he been a fraction slower, her arm might well have caught him on the way up.
Standing behind Hermione, Malfoy bared his teeth.
He shot a glance at Sherlock beside her, and in the end thought better of copying her eager bouncing to answer the question.
He didn't want Sherlock getting the wrong idea about him.
Beside Malfoy, though, Pansy Parkinson let out a disdainful little laugh.
That laugh turned instantly into a shriek.
Because—the things on the table that had looked for all the world like ordinary twigs suddenly shot up into the air, revealing their true forms.
They looked like tiny creatures made of wood, each with knobbly brown arms and legs.
Each hand had two twig-like fingers, and on every flat, bark-textured, comical little face, a pair of round brown eyes glittered.
After Parkinson, several other girls couldn't help crying out too, half in fright and half delighted.
Clearly, to them, these things were far more interesting than Flobberworms.
"Girls, keep your voices down, please!"
Professor Grubbly-Plank gave them a stern look, then scooped up a handful of something that looked like brown grains and scattered it for the twig-like creatures, who pounced on it at once and began to eat.
"Now then—Miss Granger. Perhaps you'd like to tell us their name."
"Bowtruckles."
Hermione answered without hesitation. "They're tree-guardians. They usually live in trees whose wood is used for wandmaking."
"Very good. Five points to Gryffindor."
Professor Grubbly-Plank nodded looking pleased. "These are bowtruckles. Miss Granger is quite right—they tend to live in trees with branches suitable for wandmaking.
"Now—does anyone know what they eat?"
"Woodlice!"
Hermione answered again at once.
The class suddenly understood.
So it was woodlice!
The realization went round the room.
No wonder the stuff they'd mistaken for brown grains wouldn't stop moving.
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