"Good girl, five more points!"
Professor Grubbly-Plank looked thoroughly pleased at having watched Hermione answer two questions in a row.
"Aside from woodlice, what other foods do Bowtruckles particularly favor—ah, Miss Granger, please put your hand down and give someone else a chance!"
At the professor's words, Hermione's arm froze in midair, then drooped back down, looking somewhat crestfallen.
Professor Grubbly-Plank frowned and swept her gaze across the class, eyes flicking back and forth over the students who kept ducking their heads to avoid her.
Left to right, right to left, her gaze crept slowly over every tense face, until at last it settled on Neville, whose head was bowed so low his chin nearly touched his chest.
"Mr. Longbottom, you answer."
"What, me?"
Neville's head shot up, his round face showed panic, his hands instinctively tightened around his wand.
He had never imagined that even with his face all but buried in his collar, he still wouldn't escape being called on.
In his desperation, he immediately shot a pleading look toward Sherlock nearby as he hissed under his breath: "Sherlock—"
Sherlock had been observing the largest of the Bowtruckles. At the sound of his name he turned his head, his voice not loud but perfectly clear: "Fairy eggs."
After all his years wandering in and out of the Forbidden Forest, he'd long since come to know the habits of these creatures inside and out.
"F-fairy eggs!"
Neville seized on the answer like a drowning man grasping at driftwood, repeating it at once, his voice still trembling slightly.
Professor Grubbly-Plank's gaze lingered on Sherlock for two seconds, a flicker of understanding in her eyes.
She had, of course, noticed the little exchange between them, but Grubbly-Plank was nothing like Snape—she wasn't about to dock points from Gryffindor just because two students had helped each other.
Of course, she also wasn't about to award points the way she had for Hermione's earlier correct answer.
"Yes—and fairy eggs, if they can get hold of them."
Professor Grubbly-Plank nodded, confirming the answer.
Neville let out a long breath of relief, as though granted a reprieve, the back of his robes damp with cold sweat.
As for points, he didn't dare even hope for them—simply not being scolded already felt like a stroke of good fortune.
"As Miss Granger just said, if you need to gather leaves or wood from a tree inhabited by a Bowtruckle, it's best to come prepared with woodlice as a gift."
Professor Grubbly-Plank pointed to the woodlice squirming on the trestle table, her tone turned serious. "They look small and harmless, but once provoked, they'll use their sharp fingers to gouge out your eyes—watch."
She picked up a Bowtruckle and held it out to show its fingers, thin as twigs, the tips glinting coldly. "If one of these actually gets a hold of your eyeball, that's no laughing matter."
Professor Grubbly-Plank explained a few more points, then set the class to work. "Right, then—if you'd like to come closer, take some woodlice, and each claim a Bowtruckle.
There are enough Bowtruckles here for one between every three of you, so you can study them more closely.
I want every one of you to complete a sketch before the end of class, labeling every part of the Bowtruckle's body. No slacking off."
The whole class surged toward the trestle table, footsteps were rustling through the grass.
"Should we check with Professor Grubbly-Plank about where Hagrid's gone?"
Harry leaned in close to Sherlock and asked quietly.
"No need. My deduction won't be wrong."
Sherlock shook his head. "Besides, even if you asked, she wouldn't tell you."
Overhearing their conversation, Ron immediately sidled over, grinning. "Won't know till we try, will we? What if she's in a good mood today?"
For once he was quick to act, deliberately circling around behind the trestle table until he was standing right next to Professor Grubbly-Plank.
While everyone else was busy picking out Bowtruckles, he did his best to sound polite and well-mannered: "Er—Professor, where's Hagrid gone, if you don't mind my asking?"
"None of your business."
Just as Sherlock had predicted, Professor Grubbly-Plank didn't even look up. She merely shot Ron a cold glance, her tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.
Ron's face flushed red instantly, and he scratched his head in embarrassment.
Still, remembering that she'd been just as immovable the last time Hagrid was absent, he felt somewhat relieved.
He sighed and turned to go find his friends—only to discover, a few steps later, that the three of them were already crouched on the grass nearby, gathered around a Bowtruckle, studying it.
"Oi, you actually went and left me behind!"
Ron pulled out a roll of parchment and a quill, striding over and crouching down with an air of mock indignation. "Harry, mate, I went out of my way to gather intel for you!"
"Sorry, Ron."
Harry was gently coaxing the Bowtruckle with a fingertip, trying to keep it from constantly burrowing into the grass. But at Ron's words, he turned at once, his eyes were full of anticipation. "What did Professor Grubbly-Plank say?"
Ron put on a stern face, deliberately mimicking the professor's tone: "She said, 'None of your business!'"
"I knew it."
Hermione sighed helplessly, setting down her sketch and looking over at Harry and Ron. "Why won't you two just trust Sherlock? His judgment has never once been wrong."
"Er—well, no harm in trying, is there—"
Ron was still refusing to back down, but before he could finish, Hermione shot him a look so fierce it might as well have said, Say that again, I dare you.
He wisely shut his mouth at once, hanging his head sullenly and fiddling with his quill.
He hadn't been left in peace for long, however, before Professor Grubbly-Plank came marching over.
She had evidently noticed the four of them clustered together in one group and hauled Ron out without ceremony.
"Didn't I say groups of three?"
She looked at Ron—clearly still irritated from his earlier attempt to pry information out of her, her tone had an edge of displeasure. "So then, Mr. Weasley, why is it you're trying to squeeze in with these three again?"
"But Professor, everyone else has already paired off—"
Ron protested weakly, sounding wronged.
But no sooner had the words left his mouth than a bright voice rang out: "Ron, we're short one person over here!"
Ron turned toward the voice and saw Lavender Brown standing not far off, waving at him energetically.
Beside her, Parvati Patil looked utterly baffled, clearly not expecting her best friend to pull a stunt like this.
"You heard her, Mr. Weasley?" Professor Grubbly-Plank said, looking at Ron, her tone tolerating no argument. "Off you go, then."
"Er—right."
Dragging his feet, Ron trudged toward Lavender and Parvati, glancing back over his shoulder every few steps.
This was the first time he'd ever been separated from the Gryffindor foursome to pair up with other classmates, and he couldn't help feeling a bit awkward about it—he didn't even know what to do with his hands.
It left him more than a little out of sorts.
"Ron, perfect timing!"
Lavender's enthusiasm exceeded anything Ron had expected. She thrust a Bowtruckle straight into his hands. "Quick, help me hold it still so Parvati can draw its face—this little thing just won't stop wriggling."
Ron reflexively reached out and, together with Lavender, took hold of the Bowtruckle's body.
The creature's skin felt about as expected under his fingers—rough, like bark, with a faint hint of damp earth clinging to it.
It was only when his fingers accidentally brushed against Lavender's hand that Lavender's own hand jerked back sharply, her cheeks flushing red in an instant, her eyes darting away.
Ron, however, noticed nothing amiss. He simply assumed she'd lost her grip, and without thinking, tightened his own.
That was when everything went wrong.
Ron, heavy-handed as ever, gripped the Bowtruckle's body so hard it was practically being crushed out of shape.
The Bowtruckle, thoroughly provoked, lashed out with its sharp fingers and slashed viciously across the back of Ron's hand.
"Ow!"
Ron cried out in pain, and his grip loosened at once.
The Bowtruckle seized its chance to break free and bolted straight for the Forbidden Forest.
It moved with astonishing speed, like a living twig darting away, and in the blink of an eye it had vanished into a crack between tree roots, gone without a trace.
"Hssss—"
Ron sucked in a sharp breath, partly out of astonishment at the Bowtruckle's speed, and partly because the stinging pain in the back of his hand was simply unbearable.
He looked down to find two long, deep gashes had appeared on the back of his hand, blood trickling down between his fingers and dripping onto the grass.
"Merlin's beard—"
"Ron, are you all right?"
Lavender asked at once, her voice was filled with concern.
"Just a scratch, nothing serious—er—"
Before he could finish, Lavender had already pulled his hand toward her and was examining it closely.
Ron froze on the spot, his cheeks were burning, no longer able to string a sentence together.
In that moment, Ron felt as though his own ribs had become the very Bowtruckle that had just gone tearing off in blind panic.
By the time the bell rang from the distant castle, signalling the end of class, Ron had finally managed to hand in a blood-spattered Bowtruckle sketch.
His injured hand had been wrapped up tightly in Lavender's handkerchief, and with her gentle voice, laced with concern still echoing in his ears, he felt distinctly light-headed.
They said a girl's blush spoke louder than any confession. Could it be that Lavender was—
No way. Absolutely not.
Ron shook his head, forcing the thought out of his mind.
He hurriedly handed in his assignment to Professor Grubbly-Plank and set off at a brisk pace toward Herbology.
It was then, to his surprise, that he spotted Sherlock not far off, deep in conversation with someone.
Seeing Sherlock wasn't strange in itself.
What truly struck Ron as odd was that the person standing with Sherlock wasn't Hermione, wasn't Harry, wasn't even a single Gryffindor.
It was Draco Malfoy.
What's Sherlock doing with that platinum-plated prat?
Curiosity thoroughly piqued, Ron immediately crept closer without a sound.
He hadn't managed to drag himself out of bed early enough to join Harry and Neville for morning practice with Sherlock, true but after years of exposure to the man's habits, he'd picked up a fair bit of skill at sneaking around himself.
Sure enough, he managed to slip close enough to overhear the two of them clearly.
"You came," Sherlock said first.
Malfoy nodded. "I came."
"You shouldn't have," Sherlock said.
"And yet here I am," said Malfoy.
The more Ron listened, the more absorbed he became. What in the world were these two on about?
But the exchange that followed only pulled him in further:
"What are you here for?"
"I'm here to ask you something."
"What is it?"
"You know exactly what it is."
"If it's that, I already made myself perfectly clear last time. Why come asking again?"
"Holmes!"
Malfoy seemed to lose his composure a little. He stepped forward, lowering his voice, his pale face was barely concealing his anxiety. "Do you have any idea the kind of pressure my family is under?
He—that man—could take my father's life at any moment!
Over the summer he sought Father out, and there was nothing Father could do to refuse!
He told him everything just as you instructed—the warning you gave me before the Triwizard final, and everything after, about your advice that he come clean!
That man—he—"
Malfoy's voice trembled, as though the memory alone still left him shaken.
"The Dark Lord didn't kill your father on the spot, did he?"
Sherlock's voice remained perfectly calm, without a ripple, his grey eyes were scrutinizing Malfoy sharply.
"That confirms my judgment was correct.
Faced with a master of Legilimency especially one as suspicious and powerful as him, any attempt to fabricate a lie is suicide.
Sincerity or rather, sincerity forced upon you, with no alternative—is the only path to survival for the Malfoy family.
Lucius told the truth: that he defied the summons because of my warning. That may reveal cowardice, but it also proves that in that moment, he wasn't acting out of betrayal toward the Dark Lord, but out of fear and a cautious instinct for self-preservation.
That's a thousand times better than being caught hedging his bets on both sides."
"But Father says that man's eyes held no trust when he looked at him.
His attitude toward Father now is nothing but cold scrutiny and calculation—
Father is on pins and needles, because that man could hand him a task to redeem himself at any moment, and it would very likely be a death sentence!
And what's more—"
His voice dropped even lower, barely more than a whisper, forcing Ron to strain his ears to catch it: "That man is extremely, extremely interested in how you knew he'd be summoning the Death Eaters that night—he's been pressing Father for details."
"That's only natural."
Sherlock said it flatly. "Foreknowledge always invites scrutiny but that has nothing to do with your father.
After that night, of course he'd want to get to the bottom of it—if anything, it would be far stranger if he didn't!"
"Then—then what should we do?"
Malfoy had clearly lost his composure by now.
Sherlock let out a soft laugh.
"If he wants to ask, let him keep asking.
Tell your father he need only repeat what he's already said:
that it was nothing more than a deduction and warning made by a Hogwarts student based on certain clues.
The important thing is that your father chose to trust that warning at the time. That's all there is to it.
No matter how furious that man gets, he can't change that fact."
Sherlock's eyes glinted, and he spoke each word with deliberate precision: "Most importantly, what he needs right now is a useful servant—not a useless corpse."
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