"That's wonderful news!"
Seeing that Fleur Delacour had already withdrawn Sherlock and Harry's money from their Gringotts vaults, sparing them a wait of five hours or more, Mrs. Holmes said again, with emotion, how grateful she was.
Once the wave of gratitude had passed, though, her curiosity got the better of her.
"How did you know we were coming to withdraw money today? And that you'd need to take out Sherlock and Harry's as well?"
"Sherlock told me."
Fleur smiled and glanced at Sherlock before explaining.
"Sherlock wrote to me. He said that, judging from the current situation, Gringotts' security level was bound to be raised, and withdrawing money would become troublesome."
"And as it turned out, things went exactly as he predicted so I withdrew the money for him and Harry ahead of time."
"What?"
Mrs. Holmes's eyes went wide with astonishment, darting involuntarily between her son and Fleur, a strange light was flickering in them.
Hearing this, Hermione and Gemma couldn't help but exchange a glance, and in each other's eyes, they saw the same surprise.
Ever since she had gotten a clear "no" from all three girls—Hermione, Gemma, and Luna—Mrs. Holmes had cooled considerably on the idea of matchmaking Mycroft with Fleur.
Judging by how Mycroft carried on, there was clearly no hope there anyway.
Better, she'd decided, to pin her hopes on Sherlock instead after all, three against one, there was no way not to win.
But she had never, ever expected that just as she'd given up on the whole Mycroft-and-Fleur idea, Sherlock would go and contact Fleur on his own. That was an entirely unlooked-for bonanza.
The thought set Mrs. Holmes studying Fleur closely, turning things over quietly in her mind.
On looks alone, Fleur Delacour with her Veela blood might even edge out Gemma by a bit, and stood clearly above Hermione and Luna besides. And looks weren't the only thing she had going for her; she excelled in other respects too.
By the standards of the wizarding world, simply qualifying for the Triwizard Tournament marked her as an exceptionally gifted witch.
As for age, she was the same age as Gemma.
Come to think of it, wasn't she actually closer in age to Sherlock than to Mycroft?
Which meant had she had the wrong direction all along?
The thought struck Mrs. Holmes with sudden boldness.
Just as she was turning it over, her ever-inconvenient son Sherlock frowned and corrected her: "Fleur, what I said wasn't a guess. It was a deduction.
Taking together the Ministry's announcement, the situation after the Death Eaters' breakout, and Gringotts' responsibilities as a bank, the conclusion was self-evident."
Mrs. Holmes shot her son a look of exasperation, already opening her mouth to scold him for having no idea how to read a room.
"All right—a deduction, not a guess. Noted," Fleur said with a small smile. "Your deductive method really is impressive."
Mrs. Holmes: (ノ∀`)/♡[^1]
What a lovely girl!
Hermione: "….…"
Gemma: "..."
Just as the atmosphere was beginning to turn delicate, another familiar voice rang out: "Hey, Harry, Sherlock, you're finally here!"
Everyone turned to see Bill Weasley—the one Mr. Weasley had mentioned had gone ahead to withdraw money walking toward them.
Like Fleur, he had a money pouch in hand.
Only this pouch looked considerably flatter than Harry's or Sherlock's.
Clearly, it was the Weasley family's savings.
"Delacour, you should have said something to me."
Bill handed the pouch to Mr. Weasley, then turned to Fleur.
"That way I could have taken out Harry and Sherlock's money at the same time."
Fleur shook her head. "I already promised Sherlock I would."
At that, Bill didn't press the matter, only shrugged and turned to Sherlock and Harry, asking with curiosity,
"Speaking of which, I never asked—how did your O.W.L.s go? How many N.E.W.T. courses are you taking this term?"
"Ha, as if you need to ask—it's obviously Sherlock and Hermione who did best!"
"Sherlock got eleven Outstandings and the only reason he's missing a twelfth is that he didn't sit that exam!"
"Hermione got nine Outstandings and one Exceeds Expectations!"
"Harry got nine O.W.L.s, and an Outstanding in Defence Against the Dark Arts!"
"Ron did well too—no Outstandings, but he passed a full seven subjects, more than Fred and George combined!"
"Anyway, everyone's got a bright future ahead!"
Talking all the while, they made their way out of Gringotts.
A full year had passed. Hermione and Ginny, both deep in their teenage years, had grown noticeably taller—their old school robes had gone a good length too short, and new ones were needed.
The three boys, though, had outgrown theirs even more dramatically.
Ron's robe sleeves had ridden up to expose a long stretch of wrist, and the trouser hems had risen well above his ankles.
Sherlock and Harry were much the same.
Given this, everyone talked it over briefly and decided to split into two groups to make better use of their time.
Hagrid, Gemma, and Fleur—the three adult witches and wizards would accompany the five underage witches and wizards, who needed to be fitted and measured for new robes, to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
The Weasley parents, Mrs. Holmes, and Bill would head to Flourish and Blotts to buy up everyone's textbooks and reference books for the term in one go.
Once that was done, everyone agreed to meet outside the joke shop Fred and George ran—Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
By rights, this should have been a relaxed, pleasant shopping trip.
After all, there was still some time before term started, and it wasn't often they all got the chance to go out together like this.
But unexpectedly, when they stepped into Madam Malkin's finely appointed shop, hung all over with robes of every kind, they ran into someone they hadn't expected at all.
Draco Malfoy was standing in front of the shop mirror, adjusting a brand-new black robe.
His parents, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, stood off to one side, their expressions haughty as they surveyed their surroundings.
The moment the two parties caught sight of each other; the air turned distinctly awkward.
Draco still looked much the same as before.
He, too, had shot up quickly in height, though still not quite as tall as Sherlock, Harry, or Ron.
His face hadn't changed much either—still pale, with hair of platinum blond.
His light grey eyes met Sherlock's and then Harry's, lingering on Sherlock for a few seconds in particular, before turning to his father.
Lucius Malfoy hadn't expected to run into Sherlock here either, and he exchanged a glance with his wife at once.
Ever since he'd gone to see Snape that last time, he had quietly made up his mind about something.
Just as Sherlock had said long before: once you choose a side, there's no more room for wavering.
In fact, from the very moment Voldemort had formally returned, Lucius had already leaned more toward the camp led by Dumbledore.
Not that he harboured any sense of justice.
The reason came down to two things.
First, Sherlock had predicted that night's events in advance.
That, combined with everything Sherlock had shown over the years, had driven home to Lucius one plain fact: this Muggle-born boy was no ordinary young man.
Second was a matter closer to home—his own problem.
He had destroyed the diary Voldemort had entrusted to him.
Granted, he hadn't destroyed it with his own hands but the diary had left his possession, passed on from him. And what mattered more was that the diary had been given to him by Voldemort himself, with explicit instructions to guard it well.
Then came the business with the Chamber of Secrets, and Lockhart being possessed, and it had slowly dawned on him just what that diary had truly meant.
As someone who had already joined the Death Eaters' ranks back in the wizarding war, Lucius understood Voldemort's nature all too well.
While the Death Eaters had all been locked away in Azkaban, he had still had some use to offer.
Now that they'd been released, though, he really had nothing left to offer.
So even though Sherlock had warned him earlier not to act rashly, Lucius had gone ahead and let slip that Voldemort was planning something big—precisely because he was afraid that once Voldemort's followers were all back, he himself would be punished.
And sure enough!
Once Voldemort's strength had been restored, he wasted no time delivering Malfoy a warning of his own.
Watching Sherlock was only the task on the surface. As for the real task—Lucius didn't believe for a moment his son could pull it off.
With that thought, his gaze swept coldly over everyone present. "Since there's nothing suitable here, we'll go elsewhere."
With that, he left, taking his wife and son with him, without another word.
"What was that about?" Ron, thoroughly baffled by what he'd just seen, asked, "Was that really Malfoy?"
"You just can't feel right unless someone's insulting you, can you?" Ginny said irritably.
"That's not what I meant. Harry, old man, what do you think?"
"I—"
"Never mind him, Harry—let's go get Madam Malkin to take our measurements!"
Ron stood there, thunderstruck, watching Ginny drag Harry off toward the back of the clothing racks.
Hermione and Gemma exchanged a knowing smile.
They understood perfectly well.
Madam Malkin's skill, of course, was beyond question but since she was working alone, fitting everyone naturally took a fair amount of time.
By the time Harry and Ginny emerged, they discovered that Sherlock had vanished without a trace.
"Where's he gone?" Harry asked, curious.
"He said he was going to have a look around."
Gemma said this quietly, glancing out toward the shop door, where tall Hagrid stood waiting.
Harry understood—Sherlock had probably gone to see a Malfoy.
Though which one, the elder or the younger, there was no telling.
"Were you looking for me, Mr. Malfoy?"
At that very moment, outside another clothing shop on Diagon Alley—Twilfitt and Tatting's—Sherlock and Lucius had come face to face.
He stood in the shadows, as though some invisible barrier separated him from the bustle around them.
"I knew you'd be able to find me."
Lucius kept his voice low, an edge of scarcely perceptible tension was running through it.
He cast a careful glance toward the brightly lit interior of the shop, where his wife Narcissa was closely examining the fine fabrics on the display racks, while Draco was in the fitting room.
Only once he'd confirmed no one was paying attention to this corner did he finally allow himself to exhale.
Sherlock's grey eyes lingered a moment on Lucius's somewhat pale face. "We shouldn't be meeting like this at all."
"This encounter was sudden enough—it shouldn't be noticed by anyone." Lucius said carefully.
"Because you think our meeting today was a coincidence?" Sherlock said, noncommittal, and pressed on. "So—what did you want to say?"
Lucius drew a deep breath, as though steeling himself to a decision.
"The task the Dark Lord gave Draco—"
"I've told you already—whatever he says to do, do exactly that, and nothing more."
Sherlock cut in, a touch impatiently. "As things stand, he doesn't have the skill to hide his thoughts in front of the Dark Lord."
"I know. But there's something I think you need to know—though what I know of it myself is quite limited."
Sherlock frowned at that. "Go on."
"I told you before that the Dark Lord would make a major move."
"At the time, I didn't know his target was Azkaban."
"It wasn't until a while ago that I learned he'd received help from someone else as well and that this force is, it seems, not a weak one."
"I believe this is important, and that you ought to know it."
Sherlock fell silent for a moment, his mind racing.
After three seconds of careful thought, he nodded. "Understood."
Lucius was on the verge of saying more when Narcissa's puzzled voice drifted out from inside the shop: "Darling?"
She seemed to have finally noticed her husband had lingered at the door far too long.
Lucius straightened at once, his face instantly settling back into the arrogant, aloof bearing so characteristic of a Malfoy family head as though the tension, the low and hurried words of a moment ago, had never happened at all.
"I'm right here, darling."
He called back, then turned quickly to Sherlock and said in a low, urgent voice: "Watch yourself around Bellatrix.
Her hatred of Snape—some of it may well shift onto you. She believes it's your fault her brother turned into a hero."
Sherlock gave a slight nod to show he understood.
As Lucius turned and walked toward the shop, an air of deliberate ease settling over his face, Sherlock's figure had already slipped soundlessly into the gaps between the shadows and the crowd of Diagon Alley as though he had never been there at all.
Lucius, too, drew a deep breath, and stepped inside the shop.
It was at this moment that Draco emerged from behind the clothing rack.
He was wearing a handsome robe of dark green, with gleaming pins fastened along the trim and cuffs, and the smile on his face looked somewhat forced.
Before Voldemort's return, he had once believed he would be a devoted follower of this powerful Dark Lord.
But now that this Dark Lord had truly appeared before him, he realized he had only been all talk.
He simply wasn't cut out to be a Death Eater.
Not in strength, and not in temperament.
Seeing her son's expression, Narcissa couldn't help a pang of tenderness.
In her heart, her family—her husband and her child would always come first.
Lucius's gaze drifted toward the patch of shadow outside the shop where Sherlock had vanished.
His heart weighed heavy with worry for the future, with a deep wariness of that unfathomable young wizard, and with a unease over the mysterious ally who had just been revealed to him.
In this moment, he found himself praying, from the bottom of his heart.
Let good triumph over evil.
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