HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

"But I don't think it makes any difference."

Even Neville who was ordinarily slow to catch on had, for once, understood the hint buried in Ron's words.

Yet he only shook his head slowly. He raised a hand and, without quite meaning to, twisted the hem of his robe between his fingers.

"Gran's always telling Professor Marchbanks that I'm nowhere near as impressive as my father...

"He was such a brave Auror back in his day, and I still get the simplest spells wrong half the time...

"Well... you saw for yourselves what Gran's like, at St. Mungo's...

"She's always been so strict with me. She's never once told me I've done well... so..."

As he spoke he lowered his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground beneath his feet, as though some important secret lay hidden there.

Worse than that, his voice carried a sorrow he couldn't quite hide, laced with a self-loathing that seemed to run deep.

Hearing him say this, the little group of friends couldn't help falling silent.

Harry opened his mouth, wanting to say something comforting, but found he didn't know what.

Ron was the same.

With five brilliant older brothers of his own, he understood all too well the pressure of living up to a family's expectations.

Frankly, it was the same kind of inferiority Neville felt—living in a father's shadow.

Hermione, for her part, couldn't really relate. She had always been the best ideal child other families measured their own against.

That is, until she'd come to Hogwarts and met Sherlock Holmes.

Even so, if she put herself in Neville's shoes, she could still understand.

After all... this was the first time Neville had ever brought up, on his own, that they'd once seen each other at the wizarding hospital.

After that meeting, Neville had never said a word about it—as if they'd never run into each other at the hospital at all.

Only Sherlock had smiled faintly, and said, once again, that same line: "A person must learn to rely on himself."

Neville nodded. He felt a little better.

Among all the fifth-years, there was only one person so unnaturally calm that he stood apart from everyone else.

That person was, of course, Sherlock Holmes.

The O.W.L.s seemed to have no effect on him at all; his daily routine stayed as regular as clockwork.

Every morning before the sky had even lightened, he took Harry and Neville out to the castle courtyard for fencing drills, the crisp hiss of blades cutting the air sharp and clear through the morning mist.

Afterward he'd glance over the timetable, pick out whichever lessons happened to interest him, and attend those—anything that didn't interest him, he simply skipped to go do as he pleased.

Aside from that, nearly all of his remaining time had been claimed by Hermione.

Hermione was forever either dragging him off to some corner of the Gryffindor common room to hash out some problem, or poring over books with him in the Restricted Section of the library.

As a result, the old rumour that Sherlock and Hermione had "something going on" had started circulating around school again—louder, if anything, than the last time.

But this time, not only did Sherlock who had never cared about gossip to begin with—pay it no mind, even Hermione, who used to blush scarlet over such talk, couldn't be bothered with it anymore. The pressure of the O.W.L.s had already left her no time to spare for such nonsense.

Perhaps sensing that Sherlock seemed to have some time to spare, Hagrid sought him out looking distinctly mysterious.

His purpose, it turned out, was to invite Sherlock to come meet his own half-brother—a giant, sixteen feet tall, named Grawp.

What Hagrid didn't know was that Sherlock had already met his brother. More than once, in fact.

Because every so often, at night, Sherlock still slipped out of the castle to go exploring in the Forbidden Forest.

Though not nearly as often as in his first two years.

Mostly because he'd already ferreted out most of the forest's secrets.

Those magical creatures and hidden corners no longer held the novelty they once had for him.

But Grawp's arrival had filled that gap nicely.

Of course, Sherlock had no intention of telling Hagrid this himself.

For one thing, he didn't want to spoil Hagrid's fun.

For another, he was rather curious to see how Hagrid's approach to raising and educating someone would turn out.

Unfortunately, judging by the results, even with all the effort Hagrid had poured into it, his education hadn't exactly succeeded.

Grawp had a foul temper and would fly into a rage at the smallest provocation, flailing his thick arms and roaring—and if you got him worked up enough, he'd chase you.

He couldn't even manage to say Sherlock's name properly, only able to mumble something like "Shar-lo, Shar-lo," the sound was thick and clumsy in his mouth.

And yet Hagrid, watching this, looked thoroughly delighted, his large beard even was trembling with pleasure.

He rubbed his rough, meaty hands together and looked at Sherlock with something close to pleading in his eyes, his voice was full of hope: "Would yeh mind, Sherlock, if he calls yeh Sharlo?

"Yer name's just too long an' hard fer him to remember, twists his tongue right up. But if yeh let him call yeh that, I reckon he'd be ever so pleased.

Yeh gotta understand, he hardly ever bothers to remember anyone's name at all..."

By the time Sherlock had summed up the whole business with Hagrid and Grawp in about five minutes, the curiosity on Hermione's, Harry's, and Ron's faces had given way, all at once, to pure disbelief.

"So, you're telling me Hagrid's brother—this Grawp—isn't just sixteen feet tall, he also likes ripping up twenty-foot pine trees by the roots. And he thinks your name's too hard to remember, so he calls you Sharlo.

And on top of that, Hagrid wants you two to be friends—wants you to teach him how to talk, how to behave?"

"My dear Ron, that's the first time you've ever summed something up quite so precisely." Sherlock, for once, offered him actual praise.

But hearing that praise, Ron couldn't manage to feel pleased about it at all. Instead, he swallowed hard and said, in a voice that bordered on dread: "He's mad! Hagrid's completely lost it! Sending you off to teach some tree-uprooting giant how to talk? That's even more ridiculous than one of Professor Trelawney's predictions!"

"He really has gone mad!"

Hermione chimed in at once, her brow furrowing tightly, her voice thick with worry: "Sherlock, you actually agreed to this?

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?

"You know perfectly well how vicious a giant's temper can be—if he gets upset, one slap could squash you flat!"

"How is that agreeing?" Harry cut in, sounding put out. "That was clearly Hagrid badgering Sherlock until he didn't have a choice!"

"No, Harry. If Sherlock didn't want to do it, no one could have forced him into it."

Hermione shook her head, her tone was certain.

Harry thought about it and had to admit she had a point.

In this world, no one could force Sherlock to do anything.

"Well, there's nothing for it, then—Sherlock will just have to break his word."

Ron declared, with utter conviction: "What I mean is... this isn't exactly a normal year. The Dark Lord's back, we've got the O.W.L.s to sit, trouble everywhere you look.

"Even Sherlock has to take the exams like everyone else—he can't afford to let this throw him off, can he?

"And the second Sherlock agrees to whatever Hagrid's asking, he's basically already got one foot out the door of this school!"

To make his point land, Ron held up his right hand, thumb and forefinger nearly pinched together, his face doing its best to convey the direst sense of urgency.

"Do you two remember that dragon egg? Remember Fluffy, the three-headed dog guarding the Sorcerer's Stone? Remember Aragog, the giant spider in the Forbidden Forest? And those bad-tempered Blast-Ended Skrewts!"

Ron only got more worked up as he went, his words were coming faster and faster, as if years of pent-up feeling had finally found an outlet.

"Whenever we get mixed up with one of Hagrid's monster friends, when has it ever gone well for us?

Every single time, we've nearly been killed!

Hey, Harry, you can give me that disapproving look all you want—I'm still going to say it!"

By this point Ron's face had gone red all the way up, his eyes turned bright with agitation, the words were pouring out of him without a pause.

"Look, I've always thought it was unfair that they expelled Hagrid back then—he never let the Basilisk out of the Chamber of Secrets, that wasn't him." He caught himself, and his tone turned serious.

"But leaving that aside—the actual decision to expel him? That wasn't unfair at all!

He's always been the type to keep dangerous monsters as pets without ever taking proper precautions—never once stopping to think how much risk that puts other students in!

Even now, to this day, I still think expelling him would've been the responsible thing to do, for the students' sake!"

Harry opened his mouth, wanting to argue back, but found he couldn't think of a single reason to.

Ron hadn't meant to put Harry on the spot, and seeing that Harry had run out of things to say, he sighed and softened his tone a little.

"At least Hagrid hasn't actually been sacked, right?

He's still our Care of Magical Creatures teacher. Besides, this time it's Sherlock that Hagrid went to—not us..."

"Ronald, what exactly is that supposed to mean?" Hermione's brow snapped up immediately, her voice was edged with clear displeasure.

Harry, too, turned to look at Ron with a reproachful glare.

"No—no, that's not it!"

Ron waved his hands quickly, a flustered look appeared on his face as he hurried to explain.

"What I mean is, with Sherlock's skill and cleverness, he's obviously going to come out of this fine.

There's no way he'll get expelled, and no way Grawp will actually hurt him!

How could I possibly be hoping something bad happens to him!"

"But you just said yourself that Sherlock's only a hair's breadth from being expelled." Hermione pressed on, refusing to let it drop.

"Right—but I meant a massive hair's breadth!"

Ron said, holding up his thumb and forefinger nearly pinched together once again, an ingratiating grin spreading across his face.

This time, though, everyone finally understood what he meant, and they all shook their heads helplessly and let the matter drop.

By the last Transfiguration lesson before the exams, the little Gryffindor lions sat neatly in their seats, the air was thick with tension. They had just received, from their Head of House Professor McGonagall, the official O.W.L.s timetable and its accompanying requirements.

"As you can see, the O.W.L. examinations will run for two weeks—theory in the mornings, practicals in the afternoons.

"Naturally, the practical Astronomy exam will be held at night; the exact time has already been noted on your timetables.

"And there is one more thing I must remind you of!"

At that, Professor McGonagall paused, her sharp gaze was sweeping across the room.

The little lions, who had just been busy copying down the exam dates and times from the blackboard, all set down their quills at once and looked up at her, tense with anticipation.

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