Malfoy hadn't actually farted.
And yet, a powerful stench—rotten eggs mixed with spoiled cabbage—erupted violently from beneath him all the same. Never mind everyone else; even Malfoy himself went pale from the smell, nearly retching on the spot.
Beside him, Crabbe and Goyle, who were sitting closest, jerked backward as if struck by an invisible slingshot, flying half a meter back.
The other little snakes scattered too, fleeing in every direction.
The screech of the bench scraping against the floor instantly drew the attention of everyone else in the Hall.
At that moment, Malfoy looked absolutely murderous.
He shot to his feet, the swirl of his robes seeming to carry the fury boiling in his chest. Wand clenched in his fist, he jabbed it wildly in every direction. "Who? Which filthy, low-born—"
His furious, red-faced posturing, tangled up with the lingering stench, only made him look guiltier—like a thief caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Sherlock glanced first at the Weasley twins.
Say what you would, but when it came to pranks and mischief, that pair genuinely had a gift.
The string of incidents that had befallen the Slytherin Quidditch players over the past while was proof enough of that.
Handled properly, a prank could humiliate someone thoroughly while leaving absolutely nothing to pin on you.
Down the Slytherin table, several students pinched their noses shut and edged well away from Malfoy.
The young wizards seated near the Slytherin table, meanwhile, broke into gleeful, malicious grins.
Fortunately, in this critical moment, there remained one person who hadn't abandoned Malfoy.
Pansy Parkinson.
While everyone else recoiled from him, she alone forced herself to endure the smell and approach.
Watching Malfoy's eyes go bloodshot with rage, she pinched her nose and cried out sharply:
"Draco, it's not you—it's your bench!"
As she spoke, she jabbed her wand toward an unremarkable corner beneath the back of the bench Malfoy had just been sitting on.
Perhaps the tension of the moment threw off her spellwork, or perhaps she simply hadn't learned the charm properly to begin with.
The light of the spell flashed three times before a small, sticky black smear finally vanished, and the smell in the air thinned at last.
Even with the source removed, the sickening odour seemed to have already soaked into Malfoy's robes and the small patch of air around him. Malfoy's face twisted, his pale skin was flushing red with fury and humiliation, his eyes were fixed on Fred and George like something dipped in poison.
"Weasley!"
Malfoy's voice trembled with rage; he was practically shouting.
"Another one of your cheap little pranks! Is garbage like this all you two are capable of producing?!"
George shrugged theatrically, spreading his hands wide, his face wearing an expression of undisguised mockery.
"Ah, Prefect Malfoy, you really ought to have proof before you go around accusing people.
The Hall's this big, with this many people in it—how can you go slandering good, innocent folk on a whim?
Maybe you knocked over some of Professor Snape's precious potion dregs yourself, without realizing it?"
Fred immediately played along, pulling an exaggerated look of disgust, deliberately fanning the air in front of his nose and letting out a loud "ugh" sound. The laughter nearby grew noticeably louder.
Sherlock noticed the whitened knuckles on Malfoy's hand—his wand nearly slipping from his grip.
His lackeys, Crabbe and Goyle, clumsily drew their own wands, glaring at the twins.
But the two of them only stamped their feet where they stood, not daring to step forward.
At last, the other Slytherins—including Montague and Warrington, who'd already been tormented once themselves caught up with what was happening.
A whole crowd surged forward, glowering at the Weasley brothers, and the atmosphere turned suddenly tense.
"What, fancy a fight?"
The sound of benches being shoved back rang out one after another.
The little lions all rose to their feet, an excitement they couldn't suppress flickering across every face.
Hermione, watching Harry and Ron practically itching for a fight, couldn't help but say with some concern, "Sherlock, aren't you going to stop them?"
"No, no, no, Hermione. Keeping order is a prefect's job."
Sherlock shook his head, smiling. "Besides, I don't actually think they'll come to blows."
A commotion this large was naturally bound to catch the teachers' attention.
Before Sherlock had even finished speaking, Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape, the two Heads of House, were already cutting through the crowd.
Dumbledore, for his part, remained seated at the centre of the staff table, watching the whole scene unfold with evident interest.
"Professor, they're trying to sabotage Draco."
The little snakes knew perfectly well where Snape's favour lay. The instant they saw the two Heads of House arrive together, they crowded forward, all talking over each other to lay out what had just happened.
Snape's gaze swept over the bedraggled, wretched-looking Malfoy, and he spoke at once: "Gryffindor, minus—"
"Gryffindor, minus—"
Sure enough, the moment Snape heard the little snakes' account, he didn't hesitate for a second before moving to dock points outright.
But this time, his infallible move was forcibly interrupted.
"I don't believe points should be deducted from Gryffindor at this time."
Professor McGonagall's voice rang out clear and firm, carrying an authority that brooked no argument.
She strode briskly to the centre of the crowd, her sharp gaze sweeping over both sides of the standoff before finally settling on Snape.
"Punishing an entire House based on mere suspicion, without conclusive evidence, is not proper procedure, Severus." Snape froze for a moment, apparently not expecting McGonagall to actually interrupt his spellcasting.
The muscles in his cheek twitched, barely perceptibly, as his cold black eyes turned toward McGonagall, his voice smooth and laced with sarcasm: "Procedure? Professor McGonagall, when your students openly use those particular products of theirs to disrupt public order and cause panic and sanitation issues, you want to lecture me about procedure?
"What else could this stench possibly be, if not one of Weasley's tacky little toys?
"Just look at the state Mr. Malfoy is in!"
Malfoy immediately straightened his back in perfect coordination, his face arranging itself into an expression of grievance and outrage, as though he had suffered some monumental injustice.
"What I see is a prefect losing control of his temper in public, waving his wand about, nearly provoking a mass brawl between Houses." Professor McGonagall's voice rose, meeting Snape's gaze without the slightest retreat.
"As for what started this—"
She turned toward the corner of the bench Pansy Parkinson had just cleaned.
"Miss Parkinson, can you prove that whatever you just cleaned away actually came from the Weasley boys?"
A brief silence.
The stain had been cleaned up far too thoroughly—no one had had the chance to take a sample.
Up near the ceiling, Peeves drifted about, cackling gleefully, but his word obviously counted for nothing.
The other teachers watched the scene unfold with evident interest, a certain amusement in their eyes, as though enjoying a show.
With the first Quidditch match of the season fast approaching, the ongoing rivalry between the lions and the snakes had, by this point, reached a fever pitch.
At first, thanks to Snape's shamelessness, House Gryffindor had found itself at a distinct disadvantage in this ongoing struggle.
But later, guided by a certain unnamed Lion King, the little lions had changed their tactics, and the whole situation had turned around in one stroke.
Umbridge, for her part, had been trying to make her presence felt in all this, but the moment she'd so much as poked her head up, Mad-Eye Moody had swiftly slapped her back down. And now, with Snape determined to intervene directly, McGonagall naturally wasn't about to let him.
"Until evidence is found, no one can be convicted, Professor Snape."
McGonagall had even changed how she addressed him. Her eyes locked onto Snape's, and she said, word by deliberate word:
"We cannot punish based on subjective assumption alone—that is a basic principle of fairness.
And we certainly cannot decide something is true simply because a large number of people say so—didn't you yourself do exactly that not so long ago?"
Snape's face went dark.
It was plain enough that McGonagall was referring to the incident, not long past, in which fourteen Gryffindor students had unanimously claimed that Miles Bletchley had attacked Alicia. Back then, he'd had no trouble dismissing the little lions' testimony entirely; now, McGonagall was more than happy to return the favour in kind.
Seeing Snape fall silent, McGonagall turned to Malfoy, her expression growing sterner still.
"Mr. Malfoy, if you insist this was the Weasleys' doing, then produce evidence. Otherwise—your accusation stands invalid." Malfoy's face flushed crimson in an instant, his lips trembling, though he didn't dare talk back to Professor McGonagall. He only tightened his grip on his wand.
"And one more thing—I'd suggest you check your surroundings more carefully before you sit down next time.
As a prefect, composure and observation are qualities every bit as necessary as any other, Mr. Malfoy."
Snape's expression darkened to something dreadful, but in the end, he only let out a heavy snort and turned to leave.
The little snakes watched their Head of House depart, then looked at the unyielding, impartial McGonagall, and their bravado visibly deflated.
With that, all they could do was gather around a Malfoy burning with shame and fury and hurry off.
"Phew…"
Ron let out a long breath and dropped back onto the bench, his face was a mixture of relief at having survived and satisfaction at having landed a successful blow.
"That was close! I really thought we were about to get slapped with fifty points!"
"Long live Professor McGonagall!"
Fred and George bowed with exaggerated flourish, their faces were burning with unmistakable delight and admiration.
"Professor, you are an absolute legend!"
"Don't get too pleased with yourselves!"
McGonagall's stern gaze swept over the twins and all the little lions gathered around them.
"Upholding your House's honour doesn't happen only on the Quidditch pitch!
Restraining your own behaviour matters just as much!
I do not want to see a repeat of today's events!
Now—everyone, eat your breakfast and get to class!"
Sherlock saw it clearly enough—for all her stern words, the slight upward curl at the corner of her mouth gave away what she truly felt inside.
As far as Professor McGonagall was concerned, stepping in at just the right moment had accomplished several things at once: she'd protected her Gryffindor students, foiled Snape's favouritism, and, as a bonus, given the mischief-prone twins a bit of a warning. It was a result that clearly left her rather satisfied.
As McGonagall, too, turned and walked away, the Gryffindor table erupted with cheers and laughter that had been building for a while.
The sight of Snape being put in his place was undeniably satisfying.
"Did you all see that?"
Ron said, mouth half-full of pastry, his words were coming out muffled.
"Sherlock wasn't wrong at all! As long as we keep our hands clean, Snape can play favourites all he wants—there's nothing he can actually do about it!"
Harry laughed and nodded vigorously, then instinctively glanced toward the Ravenclaw table.
Cho Chang smiled and gave him a wink, and Harry's mood brightened instantly.
Fred, meanwhile, leaned in eagerly, waggling his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Hey, Sherlock, you know how much we've made these past few weeks?"
"Twenty-seven Galleons, thirteen Sickles, twenty-four Knuts."
Sherlock's single reply left Fred completely stunned.
"Sherlock, how did you possibly—"
"If the two of you had conducted your transactions somewhere other than the common room, perhaps my figures wouldn't be quite so precise."
Sherlock said this in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone, his gaze sweeping over the Weasley twins.
"Speaking of which—how's the joke shop coming along?"
The moment Sherlock brought this up, the Weasley twins were suddenly wide awake.
"We've already settled on a name—Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."
"Location's set for Diagon Alley."
"From what we've looked into so far, it's got real potential."
"We really do owe you and Harry for the starting capital."
"And for the idea you gave us in the first place."
The two of them went back and forth, growing more excited by the moment, as if their joke shop might open for business tomorrow.
Listening to Sherlock's exchange with the two of them, Hermione asked, somewhat puzzled, "Aren't you two the least bit worried about tomorrow's match?"
"As long as nothing interferes with the game itself, we're not worried at all."
Fred glanced at Angelina first, then lowered his voice.
"Honestly, I think Alicia's right—we've never once lost to a Malfoy-led team."
"The key to winning is in Harry and Ron's hands," George picked up, "as long as Harry catches the Snitch before Ron loses too many points, we're golden."
"Hey, don't talk about Ron like that!"
Ginny, overhearing their conversation nearby, spoke up with some displeasure.
Harry nodded too. "That's right—have you two already forgotten that incredible save?"
During one memorable practice session, Ron had hung one-handed off his broom and sent a Bludger rocketing away from the goalpost with a powerful kick.
It had flown all the way to the other end of the pitch and sailed clean through the opposing team's central hoop.
At the time, every player on the team had agreed that the save was on par with the legendary moment when Irish keeper Barry Ryan faced off against Polish Chaser Ladislaw Zamojski.
"Well, fine—for the sake of that save, we might just consider admitting we're related to little Ronnie after all."
"Fred!"
Ron let out a furious roar, and the table erupted into cheerful, happy noise.
Soon enough, match day arrived.
While everyone was eating breakfast in the Great Hall, Cho Chang and Luna came over together to the Gryffindor table.
Clearly, they'd come to cheer for Gryffindor.
Cho was normal enough, but Luna's outfit today was rather peculiar.
She'd fashioned herself a lion-head hat, roughly the size of a real lion's head, perched precariously atop her own.
Everyone around cast odd looks her way, but Sherlock regarded the hat with genuine interest. "Did you make that yourself?"
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