HP: Sherlock Holmes at Hogwarts

Hearing the Weasley twins teasingly urging him along, Harry turned back and shouted, "Just a moment—I'll be right there!"

Sherlock, catching something in Harry's tone, smiled and said warmly:

"My dear friend, I can tell you're nervous. Try to relax a little, will you?"

Noticing that Harry still seemed tense, he gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Believe in yourself. You've always had a natural talent for this.

Remember—stay sharp out there. Don't lose us any points.

And one more thing—once you get out of trouble, end the match as quickly as you can."

With those words, Sherlock gave a brief nod to the rest of the team before turning and leaving the locker room.

He'd said all he needed to say. What happened next was up to Harry.

When Harry returned to join the Gryffindor team, Fred Weasley looked at him curiously.

"What did he say to you?"

After all, it was Sherlock. If it had been anyone else, they definitely wouldn't have been allowed into the locker room right before a match.

Everyone was curious about why Sherlock had made a special trip just to speak with Harry.

"Sherlock came to encourage me," Harry said proudly, straightening his back. "He reminded me to stay focused during the match, not to lose points."

He knew perfectly well that he couldn't tell anyone about Quirrell.

"Good stuff!" said Oliver Wood loudly, clearly approving of Sherlock's words. "Holmes is right. All of us need to stay sharp—no slip-ups!"

Then he turned to Harry with a half-serious look.

"Potter, you better pick up the pace and get your friend on the team soon too."

Harry blinked, then nodded. "I'll try."

Wood cleared his throat and turned to face the rest of the team. "Alright, lads—"

"And ladies," Angelina Johnson interrupted loudly, asserting her presence.

"Right. And ladies," Wood quickly corrected himself. "It's time."

Fred chimed in, "That important moment."

George followed up, "The moment we've all been waiting for."

"We've heard Oliver's speech so many times we could recite it in our sleep," Fred muttered to Harry. "We were on the team last year, remember."

"You two—zip it!"

Wood snapped, making a move as if to whack them. But having been caught off guard once before, the twins nimbly dodged aside.

Thanks to their usual banter, the previously tense atmosphere lightened up a bit.

But as Harry followed his teammates out of the locker room, heading toward the roaring cheers of the Quidditch pitch, he suddenly felt his knees go weak again.

Even as Madam Hooch stood before the teams and explained the match rules, the feeling didn't go away.

Until—

A large banner fluttered into view, high above the stands.

It read: "POTTER FOR THE WIN!" in glittering letters.

The moment Harry saw it, he knew his friends were up there watching.

In an instant, a surge of strength coursed through him.

His back straightened, his knees no longer trembled, and his steps felt light and powerful.

It was... kind of magical, honestly.

As Madam Hooch blew her silver whistle, Harry mounted his Nimbus 2000.

"Stay sharp. Don't lose points!"

He echoed Sherlock's words in his mind as he kicked off, soaring high into the sky with the rest of the players.

The match had begun.

---

Sherlock, meanwhile, had already returned to the stands.

"What did you say to Harry?" Hermione asked, the game having just started. Since the Golden Snitch hadn't yet appeared, both Seekers were momentarily idle.

"I reminded him to stay alert. Something unexpected might happen during the match," Sherlock replied casually, lifting a pair of binoculars to scan the crowd.

"What did you say?!"

Though Sherlock spoke offhandedly, Hermione and Ron immediately tensed. They leaned in closer, alarmed.

"Is Harry in danger?"

"Some risk, but nothing he can't handle... Ah—there he is."

Sherlock lowered the binoculars and turned to them. Their worried expressions were unmistakable. Ron even lost interest in the drumstick he was eating.

"Would you two be willing to help?"

"Of course!"

"You bet!"

"Look over there."

Sherlock handed the binoculars to Hermione and pointed toward a section of the stands.

"Professor Snape?"

"Further to the right."

"To the right… You mean—Professor Quirrell?"

"Exactly. Here's what I need you to do."

Sherlock fixed Hermione with a serious look and spoke rapidly, "Stay nearby and keep an eye on him. If I give the signal, disrupt his spellcasting—quietly. The key is not letting him realize what you're doing."

Both Hermione and Ron gasped sharply.

"Sherlock—you mean Professor Quirrell is going to try to hurt Harry during the match?!"

"If my theory is correct, this match presents him with a rare opportunity."

"Oh my gosh!"

Ron's face went pale. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, then glanced from Quirrell to Harry, before nodding resolutely. "I'm on it!"

As Hermione rushed off, Ron pointed to himself eagerly. "What about me? What should I do?"

"Watch Professor Snape."

Ron blinked, confused. "Didn't you say Snape was on our side?"

"He's a nasty, good person," Sherlock clarified. "I need to verify something. No need to approach—just observe him from here."

"No problem!" Ron said quickly, nodding hard.

He liked it best when Sherlock handled the thinking and left him something to do.

Moments later, Hagrid arrived at the pitch.

He was so large that even with Hermione gone, Ron and Neville had to shuffle around just to make space for him.

"I was watching from my hut," Hagrid grunted as he settled in. "But there's just something about being in the crowd during a match—oh? Where's that Muggle-born girl?"

"I sent her on a little errand," Sherlock answered calmly.

Hagrid accepted the explanation without question, turning his full attention to the match.

By now, the game was in full swing.

Gryffindor's Chaser Angelina Johnson had snagged the Quaffle right at kickoff and, after a brief back-and-forth of interceptions, scored the opening goal.

Cheers erupted from the Gryffindor stands.

Slytherin quickly struck back with a goal of their own, and the score was tied 10–10.

Just then, an excited voice boomed from the commentary booth:

"Hold on—is that the Snitch?"

The commentator was Lee Jordan, a friend of the Weasley twins.

He was also the same student Sherlock had profiled on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters as:

Upperclassman, show-off, extroverted personality, fast talker—probably a regular announcer.

Lee Jordan's rapid-fire commentary was rhythmic and dynamic, almost like he was rapping.

Thanks to his sharp eyes, everyone now spotted a gleam of gold streaking through the sky.

A tiny winged ball darted above the field—

The Golden Snitch!