"I wouldn't recommend using a love potion on Sherlock, Hermione."
George, who had just come back in after helping Verity see off a customer, walked in on the scene and couldn't resist a tease.
"George, you—"
Hermione was flustered and mortified in equal measure, her cheeks were flushing even redder.
As if she would ever do something like that!
She opened her mouth to protest, but Ginny beat her to it, snapping irritably: "Would you stop talking nonsense! Hermione would never do anything like that!"
"You're no better, Ginny."
The moment Ginny chimed in, Fred spun around and fixed his sister with a stern look.
"We absolutely cannot sell it to our own little sister—if you used it, Mum would have our hides."
As he said this, he shot a keen glance at Harry.
Harry had been standing off to the side this whole time, enjoying the show and feasting on the Sherlock gossip, never expecting the joke to land on him instead. Without thinking, he glanced toward Ginny.
There she was—moments ago bristling at Fred and George like a small, fluffed-up lion cub, and now, the instant her eyes met his, her face went scarlet.
Like a ripe red apple left too long in the sun, the colour spreading down even to her neck in a faint pink flush.
The next instant, she whipped her head away, pretending to study the shelf of Pygmy Puffs beside her with great interest.
Her fingers picked absently at the edge of the shelf, while her ears burned so red they looked ready to bleed.
Harry: "..."
Caught in the moment, Harry found himself at a complete loss, not sure where to put his hands or feet.
He could only scratch the back of his head awkwardly, the tips of his own ears quietly warming, his gaze was drifting instinctively toward the bustling crowds of Diagon Alley outside the window.
Fortunately, at just the right moment, his good friend Ron came shoving his way out of the crowd, arms loaded down with boxes of every size wrapped in bright, garish colours, panting from the effort.
Sweat dotted his forehead, and his shoulder brushed against a Portable Swamp spray hanging from the shelf, breaking the delicate mood in an instant.
"I want all of these!"
He dropped the pile onto the counter with a heavy thunk, his tone as commanding as if he were some big-spending customer. Fred looked the goods over carefully, quickly tallying up the price in his head, then held out his hand with a broad grin.
"That'll be three Galleons, nine Sickles, and a Knut—pay up, little Ronnie."
"I'm your brother! Your own brother!"
Ron's eyes went wide with outrage.
He clearly found it utterly unthinkable that he should have to pay for anything in his own brothers' shop.
"How can you charge me?"
"Thank you for reminding us of that fact—but what you're holding is merchandise for sale in our shop, not junk piled up in the attic back home," Fred said, his expression unmoved, showing not the slightest sign of budging.
"Seeing as you're our own brother and not some neighbour off the street, we'll give you a discount."
George added helpfully from the side. "Three Galleons and nine Sickles each—we'll waive the Knut."
"But I don't have three Galleons and nine Sickles!"
Ron's face fell instantly, looking as though he'd just suffered the deepest of betrayals.
Back at school, these twin brothers of his had always loved tormenting him, taking a mischievous delight in his exasperation. He'd never imagined that now, of all things, they'd actually try this "brothers are brothers, but business is business" routine on him.
He glared at his twin brothers with a look of resentment, as though staring at two total strangers.
The twins, however, remained utterly unmoved.
Fred, in fact, spoke without a shred of mercy.
"Then you'd best put it all back—and mind you put it on the right shelves. Verity's far too busy to sort it out for you."
Ron ground his teeth in fury, cheeks puffed out with indignation, and snatched up several boxes to hurl back onto the shelves, muttering curses under his breath the whole time.
Even after tossing them back, still not satisfied, he flashed Fred a rude gesture.
Unfortunately, this particular gesture happened to be seen perfectly clearly by Mrs. Weasley, who was walking past at that exact moment.
"Ronald!"
Mrs. Weasley's expression darkened at once.
"If I ever catch you doing that again, I'll hex your fingers stuck together so you can't make that gesture for the rest of your life!"
Ron snatched his hand back in fright, ducking his head and not daring to say a word.
"Mum, can I buy a Pygmy Puff?"
Ginny seized the chance to change the subject at once, tugging on Mrs. Weasley's arm and asking in her sweetest voice.
"A what?"
Mrs. Weasley's guard went straight up, her brow was furrowing.
"Is this another one of Fred and George's strange contraptions?"
"It's not—look, aren't they adorable..."
Ginny pulled Mrs. Weasley along, hurrying toward the shelf on the other side of the shop.
There sat several fuzzy little creatures—Pygmy Puffs, which were, in fact, simply miniature Puffskeins.
Sherlock turned to Hermione and Gemma. "If there's anything you fancy, just take it."
"No, Sherlock... that doesn't seem right, we really ought to pay for..."
Hermione hadn't expected Sherlock to be quite so blunt about it, and said, somewhat embarrassed, her cheeks were still tinged with a faint blush.
Gemma, on the other hand, tilted her head, a flicker of amusement in her eyes, and said without a trace of hesitation: "Sounds good! Then I won't be shy about it!"
With that, she turned and headed straight for the goods she'd had her eye on earlier.
In the end, by the time they left Diagon Alley, everyone was carrying, on top of the required school supplies from their booklists, an extra armful of treasures scavenged from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
Ron did, in the end, get everything he'd wanted. Because just before they left, Harry had quietly gone through every box Ron had thrown back and picked them all out again, insisting on buying the lot.
Fred and George leaned against the doorframe, wearing identical expressions of despair mixed with fondness.
Both of them felt Harry was spoiling Ron, and that this little brother of theirs would only grow more demanding as a result.
But Harry insisted these were things he'd wanted for himself too, and that he'd rather pay for them than not.
Since it had come to that, the twins didn't go back on their word after all, wrapping everything up with a smile and handing it over to him.
"You really do spoil him," Fred said, sounding rather helpless.
"If it were me, I wouldn't indulge him like that," George agreed.
"Sooner or later, he's going to bleed you dry!" Fred added.
"That he gets to call you his friend is the luckiest thing that's ever happened to him!" George's gaze followed Ron's retreating back as he bounded off in high spirits, a note of envy—barely perceptible—creeping into his voice.
In the days that followed, everything seemed to be moving in a good direction.
The new Minister for Magic, Pius Thicknesse, had been working hard.
He began pushing forward full-scale cooperation between the Ministry and Hogwarts, publicly appointing Dumbledore as Honorary Minister, offering high praise for the Order of the Phoenix's contributions during the wizarding war, and even awarding several Hogwarts professors the Order of Merlin.
"I imagine Professor Flitwick must be rather pleased about this."
On the train to Hogwarts, Sherlock leaned back against the soft seat cushion, setting aside the copy of the Daily Prophet he'd just finished reading, and addressed his friends.
"Why's that?" Hermione asked, puzzled.
"He mentioned something in passing, back when I was investigating a certain case."
Sherlock smiled faintly and, doing a remarkably good impression of Flitwick's reedy, high-pitched voice, said:
"'It was during that very process that his fame grew and grew, until at last he became the shining star of the entire wizarding world—he even received a Third-Class Order of Merlin, mind you, and I never got so much as that!'"
Everyone caught on—this was clearly Flitwick's long-simmering resentment toward Gilderoy Lockhart, finally surfacing.
"If that's the case, then he really would be delighted," Hermione said, realizing now.
Everyone burst out laughing together, and the compartment was filled with a cheerful, easy air, the scenery flashing by outside the window somehow seeming brighter for it.
"Speaking of him, do you know how he's getting on out in Japan?"
Since Sherlock had brought up Lockhart, Harry turned to ask Cho Chang.
"I heard from my mum," Cho said, looking at Harry with a gentle warmth in her eyes, "that he seems to be thriving out there. Mum's friends apparently love hearing his stories, and he's already started learning their folk magic—I heard he's even picked up how to write stories with an ink brush."
"Er—well, maybe that's the best outcome he could've hoped for."
Just then, a commotion started up outside the compartment, mixed in with the giggling and whispering of a gaggle of girls.
Everyone turned to look and found a group of fourth-year girls pressed up against the window from outside, peering in with obvious curiosity.
Their faces carried a mix of bashfulness and excitement, punctuated now and then by soft, giddy giggles.
"You go ask him!"
"No, you go!"
"You go on!"
"Stop arguing, I'll go, then!"
One of the bolder-looking girls took a deep breath and pushed the compartment door open.
She had large, dark eyes, bright but faintly nervous, a jutting chin held slightly raised, and long black hair pulled back into a ponytail that swayed gently with her movements.
"Hello, Holmes. I'm Romilda—Romilda Vane."
She spoke loudly during her introduction, making a deliberate show of confidence, though the tips of her ears had already gone pink.
She then lowered her voice, carefully drawing two books from inside her robes, holding them out to Sherlock with both hands, her eyes full of anticipation.
"So—um—could you sign these for us?"
Sherlock's gaze swept over the covers of the books the girl held: A Study in Scarlet and The Hound of the Baskervilles.
The covers were even stamped with gilt lettering—a hardback edition.
He looked back up at Romilda, a flicker of understanding passing through those eyes, instantly grasping her intent.
"The author of these two books is Hermione."
Sherlock said it in a flat, emotionless voice, his tone was utterly without ripple.
Romilda stared at him in confusion, brow furrowing slightly, clearly not following.
"What I mean is, these two books were written by Hermione Granger."
Sherlock said, with a note of impatience, "If you're here because you thought the writing was good, then it's her signature you should be asking for."
"But—but the main character in the book is you!"
Romilda said, her face flushing red.
Her voice trembled slightly, her eyes were full of upset and confusion, her hands clutching tightly at the spines of the books.
"So what?"
Sherlock waved a hand and, without waiting to see whether Romilda could accept it or not, went on at a rapid clip:
"Hermione took rigorous reasoning and deduction and gave it artistic embellishment when she wrote the book."
"It's rather like folding romance into geometric theorems—ah, but you're a pure-blood witch, you wouldn't know what a geometric theorem is."
"Put another way, it's like adding a love potion while brewing a regular potion—it's honestly rather laughable."
"So if what you like is the characters and the plot described in this book, then it's all the more reason Hermione should be the one signing it for you, not me."
Five minutes later, a thoroughly bewildered Romilda walked out of the compartment holding two books signed in the elegant handwriting of "Hermione Granger," her steps a little unsteady, her head still spinning.
"Sherlock, you never cease to amaze."
Harry and Ron both gazed at their friend with open admiration, awe was all across their faces.
In fact, ever since Sherlock had entered Hogwarts and begun helping teachers and classmates solve various problems, the name Holmes had been climbing steadily in fame throughout the wizarding world.
By the time of the Triwizard Tournament, as one of only two underage wizards among the three schools, Sherlock had drawn even more attention than before. On the night of the Triwizard final, when Voldemort returned, Dumbledore had pushed him straight into the spotlight.
This year, after Hermione turned Sherlock's past exploits into a published book, the number of people utterly infatuated with Sherlock Holmes had only grown larger. The teenage detective, the one who'd stood face-to-face with the Dark Lord, the master swordsman...
Every single one of those halos was more than enough to draw people in.
So, it was hardly surprising that Sherlock had gathered such a following.
But the way Sherlock handled his admirers was something the others could never hope to imitate.
Fortunately, Harry had already started seeing Cho Chang, which spared him no small amount of trouble.
Plenty of girls who might otherwise have grown just as infatuated with Harry had quietly given up the moment they laid eyes on Cho.
After all, Cho Chang really was beautiful.
As for Sherlock, though rumours about him and three different girls had spread wildly thanks to Rita Skeeter's articles, none of it had ever actually been confirmed.
Besides, Gemma wasn't even at the school, and in the eyes of most girls, neither Hermione nor Luna could really compete with them anyway.
Which was exactly how that scene earlier had come about.
Still, these were all things Sherlock could handle on his own.
It was Harry who had the harder time of it—fans as devoted as Colin Creevey and his brother Dennis Creevey were much tougher to manage. At times like these, Harry found himself grateful, of all things, to Gilderoy Lockhart.
Lockhart had taught him no shortage of tricks for dealing with admirers.
Say what you will about the man—when it came to that, he really did know his stuff!
Just as Harry was lost in thought, the compartment door slid open once more, and Ginny walked back in from the bathroom.
In her hands she carried two rolls of parchment tied with purple ribbon. Once she'd settled back into her seat, she turned toward Sherlock and Harry:
"Harry, Sherlock—these are for you."
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