HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

The headmaster's office at Hogwarts.

Golden evening light slanted through the stained-glass windows, scattering mottled patches of colour across the polished desktop.

The air still held the faint, dark trace left behind by the shattered Horcrux, mingling with the scent of gold-and-crimson down that drifted from Fawkes the phoenix as he preened his feathers.

Hermione's chest heaved. Her ragged breathing sounded unusually loud in the quiet office.

Beads of sweat trickled down from her temples, and a few damp strands of brown curls clung to the sides of her face. In her hazel eyes there still churned an agitation not yet settled.

Clearly, destroying the Horcrux had cost her not only a great deal of physical strength, but had also pressed down on her spirit with an even heavier weight.

Her fingertips trembled slightly as she carefully lifted the Sword of Gryffindor away from the ruined remains of the Horcrux.

The tip of the blade touched the floor with a soft clink, and the sound rippled faintly through the empty room. Her gaze fell on the two pieces of metal lying on the desk, utterly lustreless now, lifeless as dead things, and a tangle of complicated emotion swept over her all at once.

Her shoulders sagged with sheer exhaustion, and yet a spark kindled in her eyes, and the corners of her mouth curved upward without her meaning them to—a tremendous sense of accomplishment washing through her whole body like a warm current.

She had done it!

She had destroyed a Horcrux with her own hands!

The thought made her turn instinctively to look at Sherlock, her eyes were carrying a faint hope of seeking his approval.

But Sherlock only leaned against the window, watching the scene in silence, his face revealing not the slightest surprise, as though he had expected this outcome all along.

That, at least, was very like Holmes.

As far as he was concerned, with Dumbledore present, Voldemort's Horcruxes could never have stirred up much trouble in the first place.

Provided, of course, that Dumbledore himself didn't do anything foolish.

Harry, standing to one side, let out a long breath of relief.

His tensed shoulders relaxed completely, and a look of relief spread across his face as he said, admiration plain in his voice: "Hermione, brilliantly done!"

Dumbledore walked slowly to the desk, his blue eyes were glinting with gratification and emotion behind his half-moon spectacles, the wrinkles at their corners were softened by his smile.

He extended his long fingers and gently touched the ruined remains of the diadem.

A cold, rough, metallic sensation rushed up through his fingertips at once.

It seemed to carry with it some lingering trace of evil, but Dumbledore knew well enough that this was merely his own imagination.

It had already been utterly destroyed.

"So it's finally over—"

He murmured, his voice carrying a note of distant wistfulness. "This is the regret of an age and the resting place of a darkness."

Watching one of Hogwarts' founders' relics destroyed before his very eyes, Dumbledore could not help a certain melancholy settling over him.

It should, by rights, have been passed down through the generations just as the Sword of Gryffindor had been.

A pity, then…

With that thought, his gaze passed slowly over the three young wizards before him, his eyes full of expectation and admiration:

"Sherlock, Harry, Hermione—the three of you have accomplished something remarkable once again.

Lady Ravenclaw's relic of wisdom was defiled by Voldemort's evil soul, but in the end it has been purified by the light of Hogwarts' courage."

As he spoke, he carefully picked up the two fragments and, with gentle movements, fitted them back together.

A moment later, he raised his head. His eyes had grown firm once more, and he spoke as an elder summing things up:

"Voldemort's power has been weakened once again, but our battle is far from over.

Truth be told, I do wish things could go on this smoothly forever."

"That's not going to happen!"

In the Gryffindor common room, Ron said loudly, without a trace of tact.

His face was filled all over with disbelief. "There are only six weeks left before the O.W.L.s!"

Time had a way of slipping past unnoticed—a good while had already passed since the destruction of Ravenclaw's diadem.

"Why not?"

Hermione shot him an irritated look and reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Ronald, dear, you need to understand—today is already the first day of the Easter holidays."

Overhearing the exchange between Hermione and Ron, Harry couldn't help laughing.

"I suppose time just flies by when you're with Lavender, Ron?"

Ever since Ron and Lavender had officially become a couple, their relationship could only be described as having taken off at a gallop.

In Ginny's words, you could spot the two of them kissing in practically every corner of Hogwarts.

The turn of a corridor, beneath the willow by the Black Lake, even the back-row seats of the common room with a shamelessness that ignored everyone else entirely.

"Oi, oi, Harry, you old codger, you're the one going hot and heavy with Cho—you've got no room to talk!"

Ron shot back at once, his cheeks flushing slightly, though he still stuck his neck out stubbornly, refusing to concede.

"At least Cho doesn't call Harry 'Hawwy,' and doesn't act like every moment she's not kissing Harry is a moment wasted."

Hermione added mercilessly, though her tone carried a faint, hard-to-notice edge of teasing.

Harry's shoulders shook slightly; he nearly burst out laughing, but managed, in the end, to hold it back.

Ron: "…"

He opened his mouth, but found no words to answer with.

In the end all he could do was glare resentfully at the two of them, his cheeks flushing redder—redder, even, than his own hair.

Having said her piece, Hermione paid him no further attention and turned instead to tap her wand lightly against a sheet of parchment in front of her.

With O.W.L.s drawing steadily nearer, she had spent the better part of a day carefully drawing up a detailed revision timetable for the three of them. The instant the wand fell, the squares on the sheet lit up in different colours according to subject.

Green stood for Potions, blue for Charms, red for Transfiguration, yellow for Herbology—clear and easy to follow.

"Here, Sherlock—I think you and Harry can just share the same one, since you've both signed up for every single subject."

She slid one of the sheets across to him as she spoke.

"Thank you."

Sherlock accepted it with a flat word of thanks, glanced over it once, then slid it straight over in front of Harry.

With his memory and his gift for learning, he had no need of such a thing at all.

By now, his temperament had shifted a little, in its own small way.

In the old days, he would simply have said, "I don't need it."

Harry took it, glanced down at it and then looked up in astonishment: "Only one evening off a week?

"Isn't that a bit much?" And yet what Hermione said next startled him even further: "That's because of Quidditch practice."

Harry: "..."

"Wait, Hermione—don't tell me the free time you've given me is also—" Watching Harry stare at her helplessly, Ron felt a stab of foreboding rise in him, and he pressed the question anxiously.

"That's right, it's Quidditch practice time too," Hermione said, nodding, in a tone that took this entirely for granted.

"Bloody hell!"

Ron's eyes went wide with astonishment, his voice were climbing several notches: "Sherlock and Harry signed up for every subject—I only took Divination and Care of Magical Creatures!

Why is my schedule just as packed as theirs?"

"Fair point—but that's because a day only has twenty-four hours," Hermione said, arching an eyebrow. "Otherwise, Harry's revision time really ought to be double yours."

Harry, Ron: "..."

Having successfully struck a blow against both of them with a single line, Hermione paid no further mind to their long faces, and turned to Sherlock instead, her tone was considerably softer: "Let's go to the library in a bit—I found a book, but Madam Pince said it isn't allowed to be checked out."

"All right."

Sherlock nodded.

The two of them walked off side by side, their footsteps fading gradually into the distance.

Harry was still bent over the timetable, brow furrowed as he studied the dense grid, as though trying to read some pattern out of it, when Ron abruptly elbowed him hard.

Ow, man!

Harry, caught off guard, yelped in pain: "Ouch—what was that for!"

"Never mind that thing!"

Ron snatched the timetable out from under Harry's nose, then wiggled his eyebrows at him and lowered his voice: "Do you reckon those two are actually together?"

"Who?"

Harry, still not quite following, rubbed his sore arm and looked at him in confusion.

"Sherlock and Hermione, obviously!"

Ron gave him a look that plainly said do you even need to ask, and went on, a touch helplessly: "Ever since they found that Horcrux, the two of them have been stuck together like glue, and hardly ever go around with the rest of us anymore."

Harry narrowed his eyes at Ron, thinking privately to himself:

You, who can't bear to be more than an inch from Lavender for a single day, who practically feed each other at meals—you've got some nerve talking about anyone else.

But Harry was too good-natured to actually say something like that, so he only offered a roundabout explanation instead: "That's just because we all have our own things going on!

"I'm with Cho, you're with Lavender. And on top of all that, there's Quidditch training as well."

Hearing Harry's explanation, Ron scratched his nose, a little embarrassed. "Well, when you put it that way, I suppose that's fair enough…"

"Won-Won!"

Before the words had even finished, Lavender's coquettish voice rang out from behind Ron.

The next instant, a golden-haired girl swooped in like a light little bird, looped her arms around Ron's neck, and leapt clean onto his back. Lucky for him he'd grown so much these past two years, filled out considerably too—otherwise he might not have withstood the impact at all.

"Oh—steady on, love!" Ron caught his balance hastily, his voice was edged with helplessness that couldn't quite hide the fondness underneath. "I want you to feel my burning love, Won-Won!" Lavender pressed her face into the curve of his neck, her voice was sugary-sweet.

"Get down first and then talk—" Ron tried to shift her off his back.

"No, no, I won't, I won't!" Lavender wriggled her body in a show of petulant affection.

"All right, all right, fine, stay up there then…"

Unable to win against her, Ron could only let her cling to his back, and shot Harry a look loaded with meaning.

(￣▽￣; )

Harry: "..."

He shook his head helplessly and turned to leave.

Mainly because Harry had his own business to attend to.

By all reasonable logic, once Ravenclaw's diadem had been found, they should have moved straight on to hunting down Hufflepuff's cup and Nagini. Unfortunately, the crushing pressure of the O.W.L.s had left him with no spare energy to spend on such things.

After all, even Hermione who had done so much to help find Ravenclaw's diadem—now found herself utterly consumed by revision. Not to mention that Harry still had his heavy Quidditch training to deal with and, well, he needed to keep nurturing things with Cho as well.

Of course, hunting down the remaining two Horcruxes was never going to be easy in the first place.

Nagini stayed at Voldemort's side day and night; forget about getting rid of it—even catching a distant glimpse of it was nearly impossible.

As for Hufflepuff's cup, there was still absolutely no lead on it to speak of.

It seemed, then, that once again as always—the problem would have to be handed over to Sherlock Holmes.

After all, he had never once failed.

"I have certainly failed before, my dear friend."

In the library, sunlight fell across the long oak table through the tall windows, and the air was thick with the particular smell of old book pages—ink and dust.

Sherlock sat by the window at the back, fingertips tapping lightly against the tabletop, his gaze fixed on the swaying treetops of the Forbidden Forest outside, his voice carrying a rare note of low, subdued weight.

"Do you remember the case of the Greek Interpreter?"

"I remember but wasn't the murderer caught in the end?" Hermione looked at him, a little puzzled. "Isn't Blacklight still locked up in Azkaban right now—"

"Yes, he was indeed brought to justice but that poor Mr. Musgrave had already been killed by him."

He went on slowly, his voice low and hoarse: "There's something I've never told either of you, Hermione.

That business wounded my pride, in fact.

Yes—it's a narrow, petty sort of feeling, I know, but that is simply how it was.

Someone came running to me for help, and all I could do was stand and watch that young man go to his—"

When the name "Musgrave" came up, Hermione was startled to notice a flicker of something like dejection pass through Sherlock's grey eyes—eyes that were always as sharp as a hawk's and the rhythm of his fingers tapping the table grew heavier as well.

"This isn't your fault, Sherlock."

Seeing this, Hermione's heart softened, and without a moment's hesitation she reached out and gently laid her hand over the back of his, resting on the table.

His hand was faintly cool, the knuckles were well-defined, roughened by the calluses that came from years of holding a pen and a wand alike.

In that moment, her voice turned gentle as a cool breeze as she soothed him, word by careful word: "You were only in your first year back then—you had no way at all to stand against a grown, vicious wizard like that!

And besides, just as you said yourself—the murderer was brought to justice in the end, wasn't he?"

"Can justice delayed still be called justice at all?"

Sherlock shook his head, his grey eyes were clouded with something dark.

"And besides, I've never once believed that locking that man away in Azkaban counted as punishment."

Hermione watched him with concern, her brow furrowing slightly. "Sherlock—is there something you're worried about?"

"Voldemort.

So much time has passed, and yet he's made no move at all—that's not natural.

All I can hope now is that last year's battle truly did strike him a heavier blow than we imagine—otherwise—" His brow furrowed deeply, forming a single tight crease between them:

"We may well be about to face a very serious problem indeed."

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