When Ron finally showed off the full extent of his Keeper skills, blocking one Ravenclaw shot after another, Lavender couldn't hold back her joy any longer.
She tore her hand away from Hermione's arm, which she'd been gripping tightly the whole match, and started bouncing up and down on the bleacher seat.
Her long blonde hair whipped around with every movement, her face was lit with unrestrained pride and excitement, and she shouted over and over:
"Won-Won! You're amazing!!
"My Won-Won is the best!"
The rest of Gryffindor's young lions had reached a full boil as well.
Some hugged each other while trembling with excitement.
Some pounded the railings of the stands, the bang bang shaking the air around them.
Others stood and waved their red scarves, shouting Ron's name at the top of their lungs.
The whole Gryffindor section had turned into a pot of boiling water—loud, wild, alive.
By contrast, Sherlock and Hermione were the calmest two people in the stands.
Hermione wore a warm, satisfied smile, rubbing her arm gently while her eyes softened with silent approval.
Sherlock, as ever, remained perfectly composed, his grey eyes revealing not the slightest ripple.
Clearly, to him, this fierce match was nothing more than a deduction whose outcome he'd already worked out long before it happened.
Just as Ron blocked another shot from Ravenclaw's Chaser, Chambers, at point-blank range with his uncanny reflexes, an even louder roar exploded across the pitch.
Harry had clamped his legs around his broom, and now he shot forward like a streak of red lightning, leaving nothing behind him but a blur. The Ravenclaw players wanted to stop him, but by the time they tried, they couldn't even catch the exhaust trail of the Firebolt.
Only Cho Chang, drawing on her superior skill, dared to plant herself directly in Harry's path.
"Ram her, Harry! Knock her out of the way!"
Angelina couldn't help shouting when she saw it.
There was no doubt she was thinking of Oliver Wood's old instructions.
Cho fixed her eyes on Harry, resolute, as if to say: I'm not moving.
But Harry didn't back down either.
He held out his hand steady, nearly brushing against Cho's body, and closed his fist tight around the little golden ball glinting brilliantly inside it!!
Madam Hooch blew her whistle, signalling the end of the match.
Gryffindor had won, and won big.
Hermione, who'd been holding back her excitement the whole game, finally seized the moment and threw her arms around Sherlock beside her.
"We won! Sherlock!"
As for Lavender, who only a moment ago had been clutching Hermione's arm so tightly, she'd already vanished like a gust of wind, sprinting down to the pitch. By now both teams had landed.
Harry looked at Cho with a flicker of nervousness, his hands were unconsciously clenching into fists as a unease rose in his eyes.
After all, he was still worried his girlfriend might be upset about losing.
But there wasn't a shred of disappointment in Cho's eyes—only pride and admiration.
She gave Harry a tender smile, walked quickly up to him, and wrapped him in a tight hug.
Then, meeting Harry's slightly bewildered gaze, Cho rose on her toes and gave him a warm, sincere kiss.
The little lions and little eagles alike cheered and clapped enthusiastically.
It was, in its own way, a perfect display of "friendship first, competition second" sporting spirit.
Only Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw captain, stood off to one side, brow furrowed with a look of indignation on his face.
He simply couldn't understand it—why did Ron only ever play out of his mind when facing Ravenclaw?
Did the man really need to be provoked half to death before he'd perform?
As for Ron, by this point he was already locked in a passionate kiss with Lavender, who'd run out onto the pitch.
The intensity of it, if anything, put Harry and Cho's to shame.
After Gryffindor lifted the Quidditch Cup high once again, Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the stands with a look of deep satisfaction on her face. She'd finally gotten her wish—the trophy that stood for Quidditch's highest honour would stay in her office, and no other House would be taking it from her this year.
In return, Professor McGonagall kept her promise as well.
Every week, despite her packed schedule, she carved out two evenings to tutor the two players most responsible for the win—Harry and Ron in her office.
The goal, naturally, was to get them an "Exceeds Expectations" or better on their Transfiguration O.W.L., so they could move into next year's advanced N.E.W.T. class which would, in turn, be a crucial stepping stone toward becoming Aurors someday.
Harry and Ron treasured this hard-won opportunity and studied with unusual dedication.
As time passed, the weather at Hogwarts grew hotter and hotter, the sunlight more and more intense.
The trees outside the castle grew thick with leaves, their dense canopies blocking out swaths of sunlight, while flowers of every colour bloomed across the lawns in fierce, vivid competition. June had quietly arrived.
Now that Quidditch was completely over, for the fifth-years it meant only one thing.
The all-important O.W.L. exams had finally come.
The castle's stone walls gleamed in the sunlight as if freshly painted.
The clear sky stretched out spotless and blue, mirrored on the still surface of the black lake, its waters rippling with glimmering light.
The lawns, smooth as satin, occasionally stirred into gentle ripples under a soft breeze in a scene of pure, peaceful beauty.
But not even scenery like this could hold back the crushing pressure the O.W.L.s brought with them.
A tense, suffocating atmosphere settled over every fifth-year's mind like an invisible storm cloud.
The library was packed to capacity, every table was piled high with thick textbooks, notes, and revision materials.
Students sat hunched over their work, scribbling furiously, the air was filled with nothing but the scratch scratch of quill on parchment.
The corridors, too, were full of students clutching books, heads bowed in study.
Some leaned against the walls, some sat on the stairs, muttering under their breath—even walking down the hall, they were reciting spells.
The very air seemed thick with the faint smell of ink and parchment, mixed with an undercurrent of anxiety too heavy to put into words.
Even the teachers had stopped assigning new homework, devoting all class time to revision instead.
To their credit, the professors of Hogwarts took the responsibility seriously—walking students through the questions most likely to appear on the exams, organizing the key material, and answering every question that came up.
This atmosphere of single-minded focus and anxious tension had driven almost everything besides the O.W.L.s clean out of the fifth-years' heads. Even Hermione—the undisputed top student of the year had thrown every spare hour into revision.
Her desk was plastered with brightly coloured sticky notes covered in key formulas and incantations, and beside her sat a stack of reference books taller than she was. She was deeply grateful she'd already found the clue to the Horcrux before all this began—otherwise there'd be no time now to spare a single thought for it.
Even if she could have found the time, in her current state of anxiety, she wouldn't have been able to calm her mind enough to search properly anyway.
In this state of high tension, she often muttered to herself while flipping through her books, her focus so absolute it seemed the whole world had narrowed down to just her and the page in front of her.
Only when she talked to Sherlock did she return to something like her normal self.
Of course, as the O.W.L.s drew closer, Hermione wasn't the only one acting strangely.
Take Ernie Macmillan, the Hufflepuff prefect, for instance—he'd developed an extremely irritating new habit.
He'd taken to asking everyone he met how many hours they spent revising each day, purely to show off how hard he was working.
"How many hours a day do you think you can study?"
During Herbology class, Ernie sidled up to Harry and Ron, his eyes were gleaming with a not-so-subtle need to pry, his tone was dripping with barely concealed self-satisfaction.
He hadn't bothered asking Sherlock or Hermione, that would have been asking to be humiliated.
"I don't really know," Ron said, not thinking much of it at first, sorting through the Chomping Cabbage he'd just picked. "Some hours, I guess."
"More than eight hours, or less?" Macmillan pressed immediately, eyes locked on Ron, refusing to let a single detail slip past him. A flicker of caution crossed Ron's face, and he glanced instinctively toward Sherlock.
Sherlock was standing a short distance away, calmly examining a pot of Venomous Tentacula together with Hermione.
Having found no particular signal from him, Ron finally answered, a little vaguely: "I… I think it's less."
"I can manage eight hours."
Macmillan puffed out his chest immediately, chin tilting up slightly.
He wore the expression of someone who genuinely believed that studying longer meant scoring higher.
His tone brimmed with self-satisfaction: "Eight to nine hours, to be precise.
I study for an hour every day before breakfast, which averages out to eight hours a day overall.
If things go well, I can manage ten hours on the weekend.
This past Monday I did nine and a half hours—Tuesday wasn't as good, only seven hours and a quarter. Then on Wednesday—"
Listening to Macmillan drone on and on about his revision hours, Harry couldn't help but be reminded of second year, when the same boy had declared, "If you're questioning my blood status, you can trace it back ten generations, all pure-blood" —every bit as absurd then as this was now.
Honestly, who on earth cared?
Watching Macmillan chatter away nonstop as though reciting an incantation, Harry finally couldn't take it anymore. The moment Macmillan paused for breath, Harry stepped back and quietly pulled Ron behind him.
"Sorry, Ron, Ernie—I need to talk to Sherlock about something."
Before Macmillan could open his mouth again, Harry took off toward Sherlock without a backward glance.
"My dear Harry, you look exactly like a stray dog fleeing for its life."
Sherlock teased, watching Harry approach.
"I appreciate the description, Sherlock, but at this point I'll take anything, as long as it means I got away."
"Macmillan, I take it?"
Hermione, beside Sherlock, set down the herbology guide she'd been holding and gave a short, irritated huff.
"That man goes around now asking absolutely everyone how many hours they spend revising each day—it's unbearable!
Harry, if I were you, I'd put him in his place, and hard. You should know, studying longer doesn't automatically mean studying better.
Plenty of people look like they've spent the whole morning revising, when really their minds have wandered off for most of it—the actual useful time might not even add up to an hour."
Harry looked at Hermione, a little helpless, unsure what to say.
It struck him that what she was doing now wasn't so different from what Macmillan was doing.
The only difference was that Macmillan bragged about the number of hours, while Hermione fixated on the efficiency of those hours.
At their core, both of them had been driven a little mad by exam pressure.
Beyond the two of them, Draco Malfoy who'd been unusually quiet for a good while had found a new way to intimidate people.
"Isn't it obvious? It's got nothing to do with how well you actually studied!"
He announced this loudly, just days before the exams, in the corridor outside the Potions classroom, his voice was pitched deliberately to carry to everyone nearby. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him like two stone towers, echoing his every word.
"What's the use of burying your nose in books? These days, what matters is connections —connections, understand?
What's the point of being good at your studies? Better to have a good father!
You all know my father's been on friendly terms with the head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority for years now—Griselda Marchbanks—"
He lowered his voice deliberately, putting on the smug look of someone revealing a great secret, his eyes were sweeping over the tense students around him with contempt.
"We've taken her out to dinner, and things have already been… ahem, you know what I mean."
"Sherlock, do you think there's any truth to that?"
Hearing the rumour, Hermione who was normally so composed grew visibly rattled.
She tugged at Sherlock's sleeve with plain worry in her eyes; nothing troubled her more than the thought of this kind of unfair, behind-the-scenes manipulation.
Sherlock gave a light laugh and shook his head. "Of course not, my friend."
Ron slumped down beside them, looking thoroughly dejected. "Even if it were true, there's nothing we could do about it anyway."
The buff from being a Quidditch hero had already worn off—he wasn't nearly as popular now as he'd been right after the match.
In the face of Malfoy's provocation, all he could do was grumble uselessly.
Of course, even if that buff were still active, it wouldn't have done a thing for his O.W.L.s anyway.
Just then, Neville spoke up on his own: "I think Sherlock's right."
Clearly, a year's experience as a prefect had made him considerably more outgoing.
He'd drifted over on hearing the others talking.
"I know Griselda Marchbanks— he's an old friend of my grandmother's, and she's never once mentioned the Malfoys. If what Malfoy said were true, she'd absolutely have told my grandmother about it."
"Whew, well, that's a relief—"
Hermione let out a long breath, the knot of worry in her chest finally easing.
She shot Sherlock a rather pleased glance, then pressed on.
"Neville, what's she like? Is she strict? Is she especially harsh during exams?"
Neville glanced warily around them, then lowered his voice and leaned in close.
"She's a bit like my grandmother—I mean it, really—extremely strict, and she holds herself and everyone else to a very high standard."
"Even so, it can't hurt to know her, can it?"
Ron perked right up, the hint in his eyes was anything but subtle.
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